I was holding tree pose, thinking blissfully serene thoughts about how the deluge of robo-political calls would now be at an end, when the first delicate flakes of snow began to drift past the sliding glass door. There were only a few of them, just a gentle scattering of tiny white dots that skittered two and fro on the breeze, but I knew more would be close behind. The TV stations, barely content to let viewers rest their weary minds for a nanosecond, were now convinced that a nor'easter to end all snowstorms was barreling down on Massachusetts.
I refused to be drawn out of my routine and finished up the remainder of poses in my yoga set. I ended up sitting cross-legged, one hand resting palm-up on each knee, looking serenely out at the suet feeder hanging from the shepherd's crook. In the summertime a full flowering of day lilies surrounded it, but now the dark green foliage was low and flat. A fine layer of white coated each leaf. A chickadee was nibbling at one of the suet cakes, its black and white body fluffed up against the chill.
Namaste, I offered the little bird, hoping it would find a safe nook to tuck itself into against the coming winds.
I drew on boots and my ski parka, heading outside to my kayak. The tangerine-crimson-gold swirls of the molded plastic were decorated now with a silvery icing. I hefted it by one of its handles, giving it a gentle shake to free it of the snow. Then I walked it around to the basement slider and put it up on its rack. So much for my hopes of one more ride before winter settled in. Still, last year the first powerful snowstorm had struck before Halloween, so we had been given a week's grace this year.
Everything else had come indoors last week before Hurricane Sandy made its visit, so I was now set for winter. I checked the mailbox, smiling as I found only a few bills. The political deluge had stopped. I headed back in, shrugged off my coat and boots, and went to my computer to check on the status of the world.
Thank goodness. The stridency of the political battle had already faded into the background; the Telegram site barely had a mention of the winners of the various contests. Instead, their new focus was on the coming storm and how it would snarl traffic.
In my in-box was an intriguing note from Matthew. Apparently he'd gotten a call from Jeff, John's son. Jeff knew of Matthew's work providing computers to seniors, and he was also aware that his father's computer had been a recent donation from Matthew. He wanted to return the computer to Matthew so that another senior could benefit from it. Also, he thought there might be some notes on it about John's history. He was hoping that the three of us could get together and take a look.
I answered immediately, letting him know that I was interested, and asking when he wanted to get together.
I had barely begun to sort through my remaining email when the response came. Three p.m. I glanced at my clock. That gave me an hour to get ready.
Perfect, see you then.
* * *
The snow was falling more steadily now, and it gave a Currier-and-Ives feel to Ramshorn Pond. The trees ringing the water were laced with white, and the steady downward flow of sparkling confetti seemed to vanish like magic in the darkness of the water's surface. There was a strange car parked in Matthew's driveway. When he pulled open the door I could see that Jeff was already there, setting up the computer on Matthew's kitchen table.
Jeff turned with a smile. "It's good to see you again, Morgan," he greeted. "I am glad you're able to help us with this. And I hope you don't mind, but I invited –"
There was a movement from the kitchen, and Jason stepped into the room, holding a tan mug of steaming coffee. My cheeks flushed and my smile grew of its own accord.
His eyes were warm on me as he nodded his greeting.
Jeff went on, plugging the power cord into the back of the CPU. "Jason was telling me all about your meeting with Sam yesterday. Fascinating stuff. I suppose high school is never easy for anybody, no matter what era they grew up in."
"I imagine not," I agreed.
Joan's voice carried from the kitchen. "Some tea for you, Morgan? How about cinnamon?"
"Cinnamon would be lovely."
Jeff pressed the power button and the monitor flickered to life. He logged in and pushed the keyboard over toward me.
"I doubt my father had anything on this besides a browser and his story," he assured me. "The man had many talents, but computing was not one of them. He was barely able to use a mouse."
I sat down and in a moment Joan had placed a fragrant mug of tea at my side. The Windows desktop came into view, and I smiled. Jeff was right – few icons were installed beyond Word and Internet Explorer.
I launched Word and sipped the gently spiced tea as the software opened. I checked the list of recently opened files, then frowned.
It was empty.
I glanced up at Jeff. "Are you sure he'd started his work?"
He nodded. "Absolutely. I think he was three or four chapters in. He kept talking about how slow and steady won the race and how he would get there eventually. He was a hunt-and-peck typist, but he hung in there."
I opened up Windows Explorer. "And you're sure he was using Word?"
"I'm sure. That's why we installed it. He would occasionally email me questions about how to change fonts or adjust the margins."
I began poking around in Explorer, looking in all the typical places that documents could be stored. There was nothing. The system looked as new as the day Matthew had handed it over to John.
"Maybe he was doing it online instead?" I opened up Internet Explorer. I started looking through the browser history – and stopped. There were no history entries at all.
I thrummed my fingers on the table. "Did he know how to use the internet?"
He nodded. "Yes indeed. He was sending me Gmail messages from the house, and I know they were from this computer."
I shook my head. "Is there any reason he would have erased his history and files?"
Jeff frowned ridges into his forehead. "He was excited about his project and worked on it every night. It makes no sense that he would have wiped it out."
I checked the application list. No other browsers were installed.
Matthew leaned over my shoulder. "How about the recycle bin?"
Dutifully I went to the trash-can-shaped icon and opened it up. There was nothing there.
Jason's low voice rumbled into the mix. "Did he have another computer he might have used? A laptop perhaps? Or maybe something at the senior center?"
Jeff shook his head resolutely. "No. I am sure he was writing at home and working on this computer. He gave thanks to Matthew several times, in our messages, for giving him a way to finally share his story."
I pursed my lips. "Well, if it was this computer he was using, something has happened to what he was working on. Maybe he deleted it by accident ..."
I went to the browser and did a quick web search for free hard drive recovery software. I pulled the USB thumb drive out of my purse and downloaded the software to the thumb drive. I then installed it to the same drive. If there really were remnants of files on the computer's main hard drive, I wanted to be as cautious as I could so as not to accidentally overwrite them with this new software.
In a few minutes the software was up and running. We all gathered around the monitor, staring at the software's progress report with anticipation.
Blip. A file name appeared on the screen.
JohnsAdventures.doc 2.3mb
Jeff's voice was high with excitement. "You found it!"
The software finished its run, finding no other files in a deleted state other than web cookies and sundry items. I clicked the icon to recover the Word document, and when it was ready, we opened it up.
There it was. The story was on Chapter 5 and ran about forty pages long. I glanced up at Jeff.
"Please send that around to all four of us," he stated. "I think we should all read what it says and see what we think. I can't imagine that he would have deleted this, with all the work he had put into it. And if he didn't, maybe someone else did."
I opened up a browser window and in a few minutes the document was on its way. I turned to Jeff. "Who would have had access to the computer?"
He shrugged, his eyes shadowing. "My father had an open door policy. Friends were coming in and out at all hours of the day and night. He loved having people over. There could have been any number of people near the computer since the last time he worked on it."
I looked down at the keyboard. "Maybe there are fingerprints on it?"
He shook his head again. "My father was always showing off his story to every person who came in. There are probably hundreds of fingerprints on that keyboard. I'm not sure that would help us."
My eyes went back to the monitor. "Well, at least now we know what he wrote; it's a start."
Jason's eyes were serious, staring at the black letters which traced along the whiteness of the page. "The issue could be with something that he had written, certainly – but it could also be something that was coming up in the story. Especially with John showing his latest work to every person who came by, perhaps someone needed to silence him before he reached the critical juncture."
Jeff paled, but nodded. "It could be that what was in the story currently is harmless enough, but that a later chapter would have revealed a secret."
Joan's voice was gentle. "Then this could be helpful to us," she pointed out. "If we see how far the story got, then it narrows down the time frame in which the secret existed."
I smiled. "Very true." I glanced out the window. The snow was coming down more enthusiastically now, and the sky was easing from river-rock grey to a darker charcoal. "Perhaps we should get home and share our thoughts via email once we each read through the document."
Jeff nodded, giving the top of the CPU a pat. "Matthew, feel free to remove that file again and find a new home for the system. I'm sure some senior will be thrilled to be able to email his grandchildren or play some solitaire."
We made our farewells, and Jason was at my side as we headed back up the path toward the driveway. "I came in with Jeff," he explained, nodding his head toward the crimson Sentra. "Are you sure you will be all right to get home?"
I glanced up at the downy flakes with fondness. "I've lived in New England for almost all my life," I responded. "If I was afraid of a few inches of snow, I would have left long ago."
He smiled at that. "Well then, drive safely," he offered. He stood, watchful, as I climbed into the Subaru and headed toward home.
* * *
I sat back on the futon, blinking at the screen, as the warmth of my laptop eased against my legs. I popped a cheese-and-Triscuit combination into my mouth, pondering what I had just read.
John's writing was rough, but showed an intense enthusiasm for the subject at hand. He had laid out what growing up in the late fifties and early sixties had been like in delightful detail, from the sound of Elvis on the radio in the living room to the flowered wallpaper which filled their kitchen with color. He had been a precocious child, riding his bike pell-mell all around the back roads of Sutton, splashing in Lake Singletary in the summers and sledding down the hill at the Baptist church in the winter.
The story had been cut off as John was entering his sophomore year of high school, fully entwined with his three "hobbit" friends. Sam had been right about his role in the group, and John had pulled no punches. He teased his friend endlessly for being the dullard of the bunch, trapped in a stagnant mire he would never escape. He was much more complimentary of the other two boys and their dreams of college and a future.
I tapped a finger to my lips, looking at the screen. Did that mean the trouble spot was during those high school years? Could they involve the girl who had drowned? Or could it be something that was coming later, either when he was traveling through Asia or when he had returned to Sutton?
There was no way to know. Joan was right, though. We had narrowed the field down somewhat, and now we would simply have to keep poking and prodding to see what we could learn.
Charles and Richard. Of the two, Charles seemed the easier to tackle next. He had retired from banking several years ago and apparently belonged to the local Lion's club. I found his name on the local website, with an email address. In a moment I had sent a request to meet.
My name is Morgan Warren. I am working on John Dixon's biography, with his son Jeff's permission. I would like to have dinner sometime when you're free.
It was only a few minutes later that a response appeared in my inbox.
Would love to share thoughts on John. He was a good man. On Friday I'm scheduled to play a round of golf at Blackstone National, if the snow melts in time. How about we have dinner there, at six?
That sounds perfect. See you then.
I stared at the document before me for several minutes before shutting it down. We would see what Charles had to say about his high school years, and if he had the same reaction Sam did to questions about the tragic death of their friend.