Let's make a story!

"All in good time, young lady!," the detective snapped at me. He explained that the janitor had undoubtedly watched as the lieutenant exchanged the valuable relic with a copy my father gave him. (It was not unusual for him to have many such copies for the classes he conducted at the local university.) Dad's reputation as an honorable man and an expert in the field was spotless.
"Your father left the station. The plan was that he secrete the necklace in a place known only to him and the lieutenant. Despite the fact that no one was in sight when the two discussed the plan, the janitor must have followed him. The next time he was heard of, he was lying in a pool of blood in your father's cabin. Your father called the authorities himself. There was an empty space in the wall display where a knife had obviously been kept, and the necklace was gone!"
"To the public it seemed clear; your father had murdered the man. It was a convenient way to hide the fact that he had intended from the beginning to sell the necklace to a private party. The cabin was to be the meeting place that would make your father a wealthy man. The lieutenant doubted, however, what appeared to be obvious-even to his superiors. That's when he called me."

The detective paused and reached again for his pipe. He appeared to be engaged in the rituals of pipe readying; dropping in pinches of tobacco from a golden pouch then tamping it just so. But I knew better. He was studying me. Waiting to see my reaction as I absorbed his story. His version was plausible, I thought. And I was sure my father didn't have the real necklace. He would have told me, wouldn't he? And if my father knew who was behind all this, why did he remain silent?

I chose my next words carefully. "If my father doesn't have the necklace, and it hasn't surfaced yet, then how are we to trace the actual murdering thief?"

Finally, he spoke. "You know your father was not permitted to contact anyone other than Lieutenant Brooks or myself. To do so would have destroyed the confidence the murderer had."
"But, if you were so sure you knew who it was....."
"We had no proof. Your father saw him for only a second, and from a distance. But we know he left the necklace here. He believes your father to have died in prison. That means he is the only person who could know where the necklace is."
I interrupted again, "But if he sold it?"
"He couldn't have. When your father returned to the cabin from the lake, he fled, hoping he had not been identified. There was no opportunity to search, even if the janitor had told him where your father had put it. As far as he knows, there is a four million dollar necklace still here, and the only two people who knew where it is are dead. He has announced his plans for retirement to the museum committee. If he returns here and begins to dig, we'll have your father's testimony and evidence to back it up. Only the murderer would know where to dig."
"The museum committee? Who is this man? And where is the necklace now? Why would he think it was still here?"
Detective Een Igma answered softly, "The necklace is in a vault, at the Mannheim Museum in London."

"...And I have already told you too much for your own safety. You really must leave. Now." Een Igma was getting very pushy.

As much as he told me, there was still too much that didn't quite add up. Integrity of the case be damned, my father would have contacted me! Unless either he or I wasn't safe if he did.

Then I noticed something out of the corner of my eye that made me take his advice. The big fur jacket that was laying on the back of the chair by the table certainly wasn't there when I walked out of the cabin. I still wasn't sure if the sasquatch impersonator was trying to scare me off or just lead me away from danger.

Somehow this all just seemed too fantastic. I gathered my things and started towards the door. So much for my peaceful vacation, I thought. Perhaps my time would best be spent doing a bit of sleuthing on my own.

"You can reach me at the Pines Hotel on the south side of the lake," I said over my shoulder as I headed out.

Detective Igma grunted noncommittally and remained seated as I shut the door behind me.

I pointed the car towards the hotel and thought about what I had learned. Something he had said niggled at the back of my brain. Something wasn't quite right, but I just couldn't pull it to the front of my mind. I turned into the parking lot, closed my eyes and concentrated trying to remember every word he said.

Finally, I had it! He never mentioned this lieutenant's last name! Several times he had alluded to a lieutenant. I wondered who this man was. An imposter? A crooked cop? A figment of the detective's imagination to throw me off the trail? That lieutenant may certainly be an important part of the puzzle.

I made up my mind that I would start there. Find out who this guy was and just how he was involved.

When I arrived at the Pines the exhaustion finally hit me. I had driven for two hours, and arrived at the cabin by eight a.m. I had raced through the woods, been shocked by what appeared to be a huge man-like creature, and finally had almost been overcome by some sort of chemical. I was told that my father, who I believed to be dead, was alive and cooperating with the authorites. The shock of that revelation alone would normally have knocked me off my feet. I felt certain Dad was nearby; yet I had allowed the detective to convince me to leave. "I'm going back," I said aloud, but my head could not resist the pillow.

When I awoke it was dark, and the clock glowed 9:30-too late to start making phone calls, but was there a possibility of seeing my father tonight? My head pounded with a strong and regular beat. I hadn't eaten all day. I called room service and asked for a snack, then leaned back and tried to think logically. Brooks!! That was the name. The lieutenant's name was Brooks!! Now I had a place to start.

The jangling of the phone woke me from a fitful sleep and I was barely coherent as I answered it. The last diaphanous veils of sleep were quickly whisked away as I recognized Detective Een Igma's voice.

"We have a new development in the case," he said. "I think you should meet me at the cabin."

I didn't even have to time to respond when I heard the click in my ear. He had already hung up.

In a frenzy, I donned yesterday's clothes, ran my fingers through my hair, and splashed some cold water on my face before running out the door.

Never could I have anticipated what awaited me at the cabin.

The sun had not yet arisen when I pulled up to the cabin; yet I didn't see a glimmer of light in the windows. What kind of nonsense was this? I could have stayed at the hotel and made some calls! I grasped the handle of the cabin door when it suddenly opened. "Good Lord," I gasped as the Sasquatch-like creature stumbled out. I turned to run, when I heard the most beautiful voice I could have imagined call my name!

I stopped dead in my tracks, rooted like an old oak. I hadn't heard that voice in years, but I would always recognize it. I turned to look. Before I could utter a word, I heard a scream from deeper in the woods. It sent a cold shiver up my spine. What was going on here?

Without a word, my father began to run toward the source of the scream, and I raced behind him. I could barely keep up; roots and rocks hindered my path, as I circled bushes and pushed branches out of my way. We were no longer on the well-worn path we had used for so many years. Thankfully, my father's agility had not diminished in the years since I had last seen him. Finally he stopped. He began to rip off the costume as he looked down over the side of a steep hillside. "Hold on," he yelled, "I'm coming!"

No time for hugs or greetings now as my father was further galvanized into action. "You wait here for further instructions," he told me before plunging headlong down the steep hillside.

Quickly disappearing from my view, I could only do as he instructed. I stared dumbly at the discarded costume wondering why this elaborate scheme was necessary. I just couldn't quite make sense of it all. I was fairly hopping from foot to foot with nervousness and anticipation waiting for some sign from him when at last I heard him call out.

"It's Een," he yelled. "He's broken his leg. Call 911 and get some help and equipment up here!" I hurried back to the cabin, trying to follow the rough path we had made. Although I had been juggling the questions tumbling through my mind, and many things were far from clear to me, I noticed Dad's use of the detective's first name. Then I remembered how he had helped Dad during the initial investigation. It was he who reminded Lieutenant Brooks that the police had approached Dad for help, that his reputation was excellent. Dad must trust this man, and his judgment was enough for me. Detective Igma's maze of a story might be true. If so, the man who killed for the neclace would soon be coming to retrieve his prize.
Finally, the cabin came in sight. With nothing else in mind now, I rushed to the door, and shoved it open. I noticed the lighted ceiling fixture just before I felt my arm being grabbed roughly and twisted behind me.

I was so caught off guard, my struggle proved futile and I was quickly overpowered only to find myself pinned uncomfortably against my captor. Marshalling my reserves, and relying on the terachings of a women's defense class I had attended years earlier, I pulled in a lungful of air readying myself to stomp an instep. It was then the cloying sweetness hit me.

Ether! This wasn't in the class scenario, I thought, before slumping to the floor when complete unconsciousness engulfed me.

I awakened slowly with a groggy haziness that wouldn't clear my brain. I knew what had happened, but I couldn't make myself move. I lay on the floor for several minutes before attempting to get up. The sofa was several feet away, so I maneuvered my way across the floor and leaned against it for a minute, them gradually pulled myself up. My father! What if he came looking for me and was attacked?

Thank heavens the phone was close. I put in a call to 911 and another to Lieutenant Brooks and explained the situation in as clear a manner as I could muster. The lieutenant said he would start the trip immediately after he called the state police. I hung up the phone and stood, rather unsteadily. The sensible thing now would be to wait. The paramedics and state officers would need details, but I kept thinking of my father's situation...

I wasn't really able to ascertain just how long I'd been out. If the shadows on the wall were any indication, it may have been an hour or so as near as I could figure. I paced the wide open combined living kitchen area from one end to the other. In my quandry, a snippet of lyrics by The Clash echoed endlessly in my head. "Should I stay or should I go? Should I stay or should I go?" I shook my head and tried to think rationally. I supposed I could leave a note explaining best I could where the detective and my father were or I could wait impatiently for the distant wail of sirens. on the other hand, they really might need my help. Then again, I could be taking a bigger risk. I might be leading my captor right to them.

Frustrated with the seemingly endless risks and possibilities, I rummaged through the bathroom cabinet for the first aid kit and tucked it under my arm. I hastily scrawled a note explaining where the emergency team was to look and told them to follow my trail of white bandage tape that I would leave on the trees.

Feeling a bit like Gretel in the woods, I moved as quickly as I could down the trail and towards my father leaving white bandaging taped to low limbs and fluttering like butterflies behind me.

I approached the door, opened it, and made certain no one was in sight. I noticed there were clouds gathering quickly and slipping in front of the sun; a storm was on its way. At this time of year, thunderstorms were common, and could be severe. By the time I reached the woods, a few large drops hit my arm, and were followed by a rumble of distant thunder.

It seemed to take forever to drape the gauze over the bushes, but I knew it was necessary. The rain fell so fast now it felt like needles hitting my skin. After some minutes, I heard voices and stopped to listen. By this time, the dirt under my feet had turned to mud. In spite of the dense nature of the woods, the trees bent against one another, and the sky was black. I approached the angry voices cautiously, remained in the thicker part of the woods, and observed a frightening scene. There was a tall, rotund, grey haired man holding a gun on my father, who stood near him at the top of the hill. The detective was nowhere to be seen. I felt completely at a loss, until my foot slipped and I almost fell. I looked down at the mud and realized the rain might just be a blessing.

The noise of the progressively harder rain masked any sounds my movements might make. I edged around in a wide perimeter picking my way through the underbrush until I was in front of my father and behind the stranger, remaining obscurred by several yards of forest growth between us. If I poked my head up just a bit, I was sure I would be able to catch my father's eye. We had always shared an uncanny intuition with each other before and I was desperately hoping despite our long separation that our silent communication ties were still strong. Their voices had been swallowed by the rain and I could no longer pick up strains of their conversation.

All I needed was eye contact with him and a few motions from me, and I was sure he would understand the plan.

Initially I had thought of throwing a rock into the bushes to the side of the armed man, but the pounding rain would have muffled the sound. Finally, I thought of something that might work. I stood cautiously, and finally waved my arm several times. Dad saw me! With a prayer on my lips, I motioned my intentions and the action I wanted him to take. I edged as close to the two as possible while Dad kept the man's attention by talking rapidly. Finally, I was no more than fifteen feet away. The whole plan was so risky, I hesitated for what seemed like minutes. Then the decision was made for me. "Turn around and stand over there," the man yelled over the wind, while motioning to the side of the hill. I took a huge lungful of air, and screamed as loudly as I could as I leapt forward. The man's head snapped around in my direction, as I had hoped. I saw Dad's arm move toward the gun as I lunged toward the two adversaries.

I swung the metal first aid box that I still clutched tightly by the handle in a high arc and it connected with the side of the man's head emitting a satisfying thunk. He blinked once in surprise before going down and I had a flash of momentary panic thinking it didn't phase him. Dad's tackle was needless; the man was out cold.

"The gun, where is it?" my father asked.

"There it is, Dad, by that rock," I sputtered. "Are you all right? What about Detective Igma?"
Dad picked up the gun and walked to the side of the hill. "Ean's still down there. I was splinting his leg when Albright showed up. Thank God you made it back quickly or neither one of us would be here!"
"Albright? The man with the gun? Is he the man from the museum?"
"Exactly. Let me explain after we get out of this situation-if we ever do! Did you call 911? How about Lt. Brooks?"
I reassured my father that help was on the way. We tried to communicate with the detective, but he had become unconscious. Dad held the gun on Albright as we waited in the rain. I finally did something I had been unable to do for five years. I put my head on my father's shoulder, hugged him, and reminded him how very much he was loved.
The sound of sirens interrupted our reunion. The paramedics or the state police had arrived. "Thank God," I muttered and ran towards the road.