This is a work of fiction, using characters from the film, “Mystery, Alaska”.  No insult or invasion of privacy or infringement of copyright is intended. The story is for readers over the age of 18 only, and contains adult language. The writer is not responsible for any "discomfort" caused to the reader by this language and these situations.

Destination: Mystery - Part One

by:  MariEllen

© 04/2005

One late morning in early November Meg Stendahl opened her front door and the arctic wind charged in, rattling the other doors in the corridor, bringing in blasts of snow. The man on her porch was big and hairy. The sheriff’s badge on his coat reminded Meg of her frustrating encounters with the NYPD; but as this wasn’t New York, she managed something between a smirk and a smile and opened the door wider to let him in, closing it quickly behind him. The short walk from his car to her door had him covered in snow. He stamped his feet and opened his coat, shaking the bad weather off. Except for Jack Bender, the local shopkeeper, he was the first caller since she moved into this lodge three months ago.

He removed his fur hat, and ran a big hand through his long hair. “Good morning.”

Meg tried to focus on his face, but both her brain and eyesight seemed blurred.

“Is it?”

He grinned. “What? Morning or good?”

“Both,” she growled. “Come to the kitchen.” 

It was cold in the corridor and Meg hugged herself, rubbing her arms in a feeble attempt to stop her body from shivering. In the kitchen, she flipped the switch on the coffee machine, and watched him as he slowly followed her in. He looked irritatingly brisk and awake. Meg knew she looked and probably smelled like shit; sleeping behind her PC after half a bottle of brandy didn’t do much for her complexion or her humor. She filled a glass with water from the tap and drank it to kill the taste of something dead and hairy in her mouth.

“You want some coffee too?”

“Well, if I’m not disturbing you,” he said, mocking her.

Too fucking late now. She didn’t say it aloud, just poured two mugs and brought them over to the table.

She was much younger than he’d expected. When Jack Bender told him a writer had rented Bailey’s old lodge, the image of an elderly, slightly eccentric woman had settled in his brain. Even with her tangled hair, blood shot eyes, and the imprint of a keyboard on her cheek, he still thought her beautiful. She drained her second coffee before she spoke to him again.

“What brings you up here?” The smile that softened the ‘why are you bothering me’ tone, never reached her eyes.

“I just came to check if you are prepared for the storm that’s expected to hit this area sometime tomorrow. We’re closing the roads to and from town this afternoon.”

“I’m fine. Jack brought my supplies over yesterday, I should have enough to last me two weeks.”

“You’re planning to stay up here then?” He asked.

“Is that a problem?”

He looked at her willful face. “No, not as long as you stay indoors.”

“I will.”

Her voice still had a hoarse well-drowned quality and he raised his eyebrow in question. “Rough night?”

“No, the night was okay, it’s the morning after that’s the problem.”

He giggled. Its high, almost girlish sound surprised Meg. She took a better look at him. Under all that hair, his face was strong and masculine, a serious face when not smiling, with sad lines around his mouth and green eyes, but the dimples in his cheeks and little crow’s-feet betrayed a tendency to smiling. She wondered what it was that had happened to him, what caused the sadness.

He raised his brow slightly and Meg realized she was staring at him. With burning cheeks, she diverted her eyes.

“So, have you settled in a bit?”

“Yes,” she said, “I like it here. Nice and quiet.”

“We don’t see much of you in town.”

Meg shrugged. “Well, I didn’t come here to socialize.”

“The book is coming along fine then?”

“It’s coming along.”

She didn’t make it easy to talk to her, but he persisted. “What’s it about?”

Meg rested her grey eyes on his face again, as if measuring him, deciding how much to tell him, if anything. “Basically, it’s about injustice.”

“You’re not going tell me, are you?”

How his smile lights up his whole face, Meg thought. It went beyond attractiveness. It was real and warm, showing her a natural kindness and deciding she liked him, smiled back, and slightly shook her head. “Not much to tell really, it’s early stages yet.”

“What made you choose this isolated lodge? It must have been quite a culture shock after New York .”

Her eyes moved away to the window overlooking the poplars and frozen lake, not seeing. Flashlights and microphones were propped in her face. Questions shouted at her. Familiar and strange eyes looked at her accusingly. Newspaper headlines flashed by, nasty headlines, the sorts of headlines that made your husband turn his back on you, the sort of headlines that made longtime friends and colleagues doubt you.

He looked at her profile, the short straight nose, and the full curve of her mouth. She looked lost and vulnerable. When her consciousness focused on him again, there was no trace of a smile left. Her eyes seemed darker and her body tense.

“Maybe I just needed to lose myself for a while.”

The mood had changed and he got up. “Time to get on. Thanks for the coffee.” He turned at the door. “If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

She nodded. “Yes. Thank you, sheriff.”

“It’s John. John Biebe.”

She stood up and reached out her hand. “Meg Stendahl.”

His hand was big and warm. She liked how her hand disappeared in it.

***

Meg tried the phone again; it was still dead, been dead since yesterday. It aggravated her. It was her lifeline to her friends Paul and Helen Brentano. Paul, her friend and colleague since med-school, cocky and arrogant, wickedly humorous and intelligent; she had taken to him from their first meeting. Meg’s life-long friend Helen took to him too, and married him two years after Meg introduced them to each other. Helen , the instigator behind Meg’s book was chief-editor for one of New York ’s most prestigious publishing houses. Their nightly talks kept her sane, without it the isolation was complete…the loneliness hardly bearable.

One night many months ago, in Paul and Helen ’s Manhattan apartment and after three bottles of wine, Meg had brought up the idea of leaving New York for a while. Her friends had agreed it would do Meg good to get away from the city, admitting that she needed some time off to reconsider her future. As a game they had written the names of several isolated locations in the world on pieces of paper and when Meg pulled out ‘Alaska’ they had double over with laughter thinking it was all a big joke. But in the days following, the idea took root in Meg’s mind and the more she’d thought about it, the more perfect Alaska had seemed.

What had she been thinking? Thinking that Alaska would be perfect to hide, perfect to avoid other people, perfect because of its isolation and solitude? Christ! Solitude indeed. Self-chosen, no one to blame but herself and her stubbornness. Paul and Helen had told her she was crazy, and tried to stop her, but as always, once her mind was made up, nothing could.

Meg had picked Mystery simple for its name, and when she’d arrived the small town with its wooden houses, few shops and single pub, had fitted the romanticized picture she’d painted of living in a rough environment perfectly. The first month had been bliss; she’d loved the peace and quiet, loved that the phone didn’t ring, loved the long walks without encountering people, but as the months passed, the loneliness got to her and it was only her stubborn nature that kept her from returning to New York .

***

The blizzard roared around the house, covering it with snow like thick sugar icing on a cake. The snow on the windows left Meg with no view on the world and the growing sense of claustrophobia made working impossible. The desk she used was covered with files and newspapers, their headlines shouting at her: ‘Pediatrician accused of murder’, ‘ Vermont lashes out at victim’s mother.’ With an angry gesture, she swept the top clean, sending the papers flying through the room like birds with broken wings.

Meg took a seat next to the large bookcase, trailing the backs of the books with her fingers, but they represented the typical selection of popular titles found in most holiday homes, and she found nothing to her taste. Frustrated, she looked at the mess she’d caused and collected the papers from the floor, organized them, and put them neatly back in their folders. Christ! What a way to keep busy!

***

The storm’s tumult kept her awake at night. The wind howled inside the house, whistled in the chimney, and made the windows sing in their frames. Outside with creaking sounds, branches tore loose from the tall, erect poplars that surrounded the lodge. Sleep wouldn’t come and Meg got up to make tea. It was what her father used to do. By the time Meg was a co-assistant in Mount Sinai , she could totally relate to her father’s insomnia. The incredible hours, the stress and responsibility of the job had screwed up her biorhythm completely. Like her, her father had been a doctor. In fact, she became a doctor because of him; he’d been her example in life, all she’d wanted was to be like him.

Meg took her tea into the living room and sat down on the rug, her back against the couch, listening to the storm. Almost a year had passed since her father died. He’d suffered a heart attack shortly after Christmas. Meg had rushed him to the hospital, where he never regained consciousness and died after three days. His death had caused a terribly emptiness inside her and she dreaded the upcoming holidays. It would be the first Christmas without him, the first Christmas without any of her friends or family.

***

The sun shone in her eyes mercilessly, waking her up. Meg was lying on the couch and it took her a few minutes to realise that it was silent outside; the storm had died down. It was cold in the room, cold and stuffy; she opened a window to let in fresh, freezing air. After days of being cooped up inside, she took a quick shower and dressed for the cold, grabbing her parka and sunglasses on the way out.

Walking through the fresh snow was like working her way through porridge. Meg made it as far as the lake. The frozen pond had disappeared under a thick blanket of snow, excruciatingly white in the bright sunlight. It was a clear day; she could see all the way across the lake to the mountain rims on the other side. No low hanging clouds today. Meg took a couple of steps onto the snow-covered ice, almost feeling guilty for disturbing the virginal white. On an impulse, she let herself fall backwards into it. The softness caught her, embraced her almost. She remembered a scene from a movie and moved her arms up and down in the snow, creating angel’s wings. Had it been in the snow or on the beach? She couldn’t remember what movie it had been. The cloudless sky was devastatingly light and blue, and she felt insignificant and small under its endless stretch. 

Someone called. She heard the creaking sound of footsteps in the snow and opened her eyes. A man walked up to her, his silhouette dark against the bright sky.

“Are you alright?”

Meg got up, the imprint of her foolish behavior clear under her feet.

“Yeah, I was just… you know, making angel wings.”

John smiled down at her with eyebrows raised. “Angel wings… is that a writer thing?”

“It’s from a movie…” She made a helpless gesture. “Oh, never mind.” He was laughing openly at her now, his laughter so catching, she found herself giggling.

“What are doing up here anyway?”

“Just thought I’d check on you, see if you made it through the storm all right.”

 “I’m fine, thanks. Relieved it’s over though.”

They walked back to the cabin together. “Do you have time for coffee?” Meg asked.

“Yeah. I’m off duty now, been at it since five, making sure the roads are clear, checking the damage.”

“Is there a lot of damage?”

“The usual, trees falling on roofs, debris blocking the roads. The phones are down, don’t know if you noticed. A landslide took some poles with it, we hope to have those fixed in a couple of days.”

“I noticed.”

John came in after her, leaving his coat and boots in the hallway. He stood with his back to the fire and cupped the coffee mug Meg handed him with two hands. Meg thought he looked exhausted. The heavy eyelids almost covered his eyes and there were dark patches underneath them. He walked over to the couch and slumped down on it.

Meg said, “I was planning to fry some eggs, you want some?”

John glanced up in surprise. “Yes, I would, thanks.”

He looked around the room. The lodge was rented fully furnished; it appeared much the same as when it still belonged to his old friend Bailey Pruitt. He had always liked it. When Bailey was still alive, he’d used it as a weekend home, a fall-out base for hunting or fishing. John had spent many enjoyable hours with Bailey up here, sharing a beer, playing chess, and talking. The living room was large with wooden paneling all around, heavy bookcases and a huge fireplace that bathed the two couches flanking it, in a warm orange glow. Meg hadn’t changed much, just moved the desk in front of the window, into the light. She hadn’t brought many personal things, maybe some books. There were piles of them all around the room. The picture of an elderly man stood on the mantelpiece. John picked up a book that was half buried between the couch cushions: poems by Rudyard Kipling. He wasn’t into poems, but the crack in its back opened the book to the one well-read page. Some of the words were underlined.

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,

Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,

And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

He was curious if the underlining was hers, wondered if the sentences had special meaning to her. He read on.

If you can dream--and not make dreams your master;

If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with triumph and disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,

And stoop and build 'em up with worn out tools;

Or watch the things you gave your life to broken. It kicked him in the stomach. He closed the book, placed it on a pile of others on the floor, and forced his thoughts back into their dark, lonely pit. He didn’t want to go there. The warmth of the fire made him drowsy and he rested his head on his arm.

When Meg came back with the eggs and bacon on rye, John was fast asleep. She put his plate on a side-table and sat down on the other couch and watched him while she ate. He was lying on his side. In the soft light of the fire, his long, auburn hair almost seemed red. Relaxed in sleep his mouth was slightly open and his full upper lip curved sensually. Under the short trimmed beard, she noticed the strong lines of his jaw with the cleft in his chin. Damn! He was gorgeous! Fee ling a bit uneasy peeping at him like that, Meg took the plates back into the kitchen and returned to her desk to work.

***

He rides the black ice. It stretches endless before him, beyond the sharp line where the land ends and the sky begins. Empty, smooth, and polished, it disappears under his skates but not before his eyes.

He hits the invisible barrier, like he knows he will and can’t escape. The clear wall of ice stops him and he turns and skates the other way.

Time after time, he hits the walls until they catch up with him and close in on him, almost crushing him before the black ice opens under his feet and he falls deeper and deeper into the ice cold water.

***

John’s scream chilled Meg to the bone. She jumped up, knocking over her chair and ran to the couch. He was half-sitting, not completely awake yet and moaned. Meg sat down and shook him by the shoulders. “John, wake up.”

His eyes shot open, wild and disturbed, not seeing her. He grabbed her wrists, pulling her hands off his shoulders and held them in a painful grip. Meg watched his face calm down, his eyes focus on her and as his ragged breathing slowed, he seemed to become aware of his surroundings.

“You were dreaming,” she said. He looked down at his hands clenched around her wrists and let go. Absentmindedly she massaged the painful spots and kept watching him. His face was pale and covered with sweat, strands of soaked hair hung in disarray before his eyes. He raised his hand and pulled it back, confusion clear in his expression.

“You must have been really tired, for you fell asleep on the couch. Maybe I should have woken you up hours ago, but you seemed to need it and as you weren’t in my way, I just let you sleep.” Her worried eyes locked into his. “Are you okay?”

John slowly nodded.

“Want to tell me about the dream?”

For a moment his eyes held hers, wide open and on guard, before he scanned her face and seemed to take heart from its calmness.

“It’s always the same. I’m skating, alone in the dark. It’s pitch dark; all I can see is the black ice under me. Invisible walls of ice close in on me until I have nowhere to go. I feel they are crushing me and I can’t breath. Then the ice under my feet is gone and I fall and go deeper and deeper into the black water.” His voice broke. “And then I see Mikey. His face and hands are a fluorescent green and I know he’s dead, but his eyes are open and his mouth is moving…and I know I should stop sinking and listen to him…but I can’t. And then I wake up.” He shivered, his eyes filled with pain.

“Who is Mikey?”

“My son. Two years ago he went through the ice and drowned.”

“Oh, Jesus, John. I’m so sorry…”

John couldn’t look at her. He’d seen enough pity in people’s eyes to last him a lifetime. Uncomfortable with unwillingly having made her a witness to his misery, he rose to his feet and gruffly said, “I have to go.”

Meg didn’t follow him, she heard him put his boots and coat on and quietly close the door behind him.

***

A week passed before he came round again. Meg had mixed feelings about seeing him again. His heartbroken face had been popping up in her mind too often during the past week and she didn’t want to start caring for him. As she opened the door and felt her heart jump at the dark shadows under his eyes, she knew it was too late already.

John showed no sign of wanting to come in, just brusquely said “I owe you an apology. I shouldn’t have left like that, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, you don’t owe me anything.” He looked like he could use a good hug, but Meg didn’t move. She shivered in the cold air and said, “Come in.”

John shook his head, looking away. “I wouldn’t be good company. Anyway, I’ve bothered you enough…”

“You don’t bother me, but make up your mind, for it’s too cold to keep the door open.”

He stepped inside and Meg walked into the living room leaving him little choice but to follow her. He took off his coat and sat down on the couch, clearly ill at ease.

Meg sat down opposite him and said, “Listen, if you want to talk…you know, the comfort of strangers and such…I’m a good listener. But if you don’t want to…that’s okay too.”

Without positively wanting to, but impelled by her composed manner, John started talking.

“When Mike died, my wife, Donna…she blamed me…for loving hockey, for making the boys love hockey, for wanting to live here.” He looked at Meg with immeasurable sadness. “That’s how it happened, you know. Mike wanted to play the pond so much; he went on the ice too early. I’d warned him over and over again never to do that, but he was with a couple of friends and they just did it anyway.”

Her quiet face willed him to go on.

“Donna and I just didn’t seem able to console each other, talk to each other…and in the end she left, taking the kids. I always thought we were doing all right. I mean…I knew that she was restless…missed the city, missed going out, the theatre and things like that. But I thought that what we had, our family, was enough for her.”

“How many kids do you have?”

“We have two more sons, Joey and Jamie . They’re only seven and five. That’s the hardest thing, not having them around.”

“Do you get to see them at all?”

“Yeah, during holidays. Two weeks at Christmas and six weeks in summer.”

“So, soon again then.” It was only five weeks until the Christmas holidays.

“Yes,” a faint smile appeared, “soon again.”

“Tell me about Mike. What was he like?”

His smile deepened. “Mikey was such a happy little boy. He loved it here. Loved everything that had to do with ice and skating. I used to take him with me to the locker room. He just loved to sit there and listen to all the stories. Loved to help. Little things, you know? Passing round the hot potatoes…”

“Hot potatoes?”

“Yeah, we use hot potatoes to warm our skates before the game.”

“Oh, okay. Kinda basic, isn’t it?”

“Hmm, but effective. Mike loved chores like that. He used to hand out the shirts that divide the teams, the sticks we play with. Of course the result was that he picked up a lot of bad language, Donna wasn’t too pleased about that.” He shook his head. “He was so proud of me, playing the Saturday game. Always talking about when he would be old enough to play it too.”

“I’ve heard about your Saturday game, seems to be a big deal in this town.”

“Yes, it is. We are a hockey town and proud of it.”

Meg smiled at his serious face. “I did notice all the ice rinks in town. Maybe I should come and watch that famous game of yours one day.”

“Yes, you should, it’s a lot of fun.”

“Hmm, freezing my butt off watching a bunch of overgrown boys chase a wooden puck around the ice isn’t exactly my idea of fun.”

John was about to say something in defense but caught the mischievous sparkle in her eyes just in time. He just grinned back.

Meg watched him; he seemed more relaxed.

“I have some left-over pot roast in the oven. I don’t know if you have any plans, but you’re welcome to stay if you want.”

John looked at her friendly face, at the cool grey eyes and her generous mouth, knowing that with her calm demeanor and quiet questions, she had brought him back from a very dark place, making him feel better than he had in a long time. He thought of his empty house, where nothing waited for him but memories and a microwave dinner.

“I would love to.”

Meg went into the kitchen and John followed. “Pour us some wine, will ya. It’s behind you on the shelf,” she said. John opened the bottle and poured two glasses, handed her one and took a seat at the kitchen table, watching her prepare dinner. Meg set the table with plates, salad and bread. She checked the roast, tasting it and filled two bowls with the casserole.

“Enjoy.”

He ate like a wolf, helping himself to seconds and after he glowed with satisfaction, the color back on his cheeks and the lines in his face softened. Meg just smiled at him. She loved a man with a healthy appetite. She cleared the table and put the dishes in the sink. The coffee machine was already running to finish and she poured two mugs. “Let’s go sit by the fire.”

Back in the living room, John noticed the chess-set on a little table; it wasn’t Bailey’s set. He picked up a piece. The set was beautifully carved out of boxwood and ebony. “Yours?”

“Yes. They used to be my father’s.”

“Do you play?”

“Yes, I do.”

She didn’t miss the mockingly raised brow. “What? Don’t you think women can play?”

“No, it’s just I never met a woman before who liked the game.” Or was any good at it. He didn’t say that aloud.

She challenged him. “I like to play.”

His smile deepened. “Like now?”

“Sure.”

Meg picked up the table and set it between the couches, pulling one of them closer by.

She smiled sweetly. “So this is the first time you will be beaten by a woman?”

He laughed aloud. “Oh, you’re in trouble now. I’ll make you eat those words.”

“I’m mortified…”

John looked into her teasing eyes; he was so going to enjoy beating her.

Meg played fast and aggressive, and before John knew it, she had him cornered. This was going to be tougher than he thought. She smiled like a Cheshire cat before the kill and he realized that he should concentrate more on the game and less on her. He had a hard time. She dared him with her eyes, making fun of him, and he lost the first game.

Despite his competitive nature, John was a gracious loser. He lifted his coffee mug in a toast. “I admit it, you can play chess.”

Meg laughed happily. “First game is always the easiest. You underestimated me, you won’t make that mistake again.”

She got up and went to kitchen to get some wine while John set the board again. When she handed him his glass, he noticed the dark bruises on her wrist. He took the glass from her with one hand and gently held her wrist with the other.

“Did I do that?”

Meg felt goose pimples creep up her skin under his touch. His thumb slowly stroked the bruise. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”

She grinned to disguise her uneasiness and wriggled her arm free. “It’s nothing, I always bruise easily. Let’s play.”

They played the second game more careful. She was right; John didn’t underestimate her anymore and forced himself to concentrate. After a few hours, Meg had to admit she found her match. He won the second game. She leaned back and smiled at him warmly.

“I thoroughly enjoyed that. You are a worthy adversary.”

“Right back at you. Where did you learn to play like that?”

“My father taught me. He loved the game.”

“Is he still around?”

“No, he died.” Her sadness was tangible.

“I’m sorry…tell me about him.”

Meg searched for the right words. “He was my hero. All my life I wanted to be like him. He raised me to believe I could do anything I wanted, always believing in me.” She grinned sardonically. “We drove my mother crazy, being hand in glove, she never quite understood. Nor did she understand his passion for his work, she divorced him years ago.”

“Do you still see her?”

“Sometimes. We never really got along. I guess you could say we are on polite terms.”

“When did your father die?”

“Last year, after Christmas, he had a heart attack.”

“Was he a writer like you?”

“No, actually, he was a pediatrician, like I am.”

He was clearly surprised. “You’re a doctor? Why all this then? I thought you were a writer.”

“No, this is my first attempt.” Meg looked at him carefully, tempted to tell him her story, but deciding against it. After all, he was a cop and practically a stranger. “Things happened to me and I needed to get away for a while. My best friend is a publisher, she rather pushed me to write, and when the book is good enough, she will publish it for me. It’s a new challenge and it keeps me busy.”

John just nodded, realizing she was holding back, not persisting.

Meg seemed lost in thought and as it was late, he got up to go home. She walked him to the door. John turned to her, smiling.

“Thanks for dinner… and everything.”

Meg looked at his smiling face, thinking how much she liked him.

“Sure,” she said, “anytime.”

***

Every two weeks or so, Meg went down to town to empty her mailbox and do some shopping.

Normally her mailbox didn’t hold much more than the magazines she had sent after her. But today there was a letter and it surprised Meg, as only Paul and Helen knew her address and they communicated with her through email and phone. She tore the envelope open and read it. It was anonymous and nasty.

I know who you are. Fucking child-murderer. Did you think you could fool me, posing as a writer? You are not welcome here. So pack your things and go back to the stinking hole you came from. Don’t make me force you.

In shock, Meg looked at the envelope again. It held the name she had used in the past, the name the press had used.

Margaret Vermont

Baileys Lodge

Mystery

It should have warned her.

Back in New York , she’d received letters like this. Right after the story hit the papers, she’d become the target of many poisonous letters and disgusting telephone calls. The thought that people unknown to her would go to the trouble of writing hurtful letters and making vicious calls, had appalled her, but after the media-storm had quieted down, so had the attacks.

For a moment, Meg contemplated showing the letter to John, but that would imply explaining things to him and she wasn’t ready for that yet. She put the letter in her pocket and decided to ignore it.

On her occasional trips to town, Meg had run into John a couple of times. He’d never visited her at the lodge again, and although she hadn’t really expected him to, it strangely hurt her. One time she almost invited him to come play chess again, but bailed out, afraid he would think her forward.

She’d started to go into the pub for a drink or a bite to eat. It was a nice pub; warm and homely with a cosy fire burning, open all hours, serving breakfast, lunch, and daily specials. Like most buildings in Mystery, it was made completely of wood and had the same rustic feel to it as the cabin and from the diversity of customers that normally were inside, Meg figured that the place fulfilled a need in town. The owner was a large, bosomy, blonde woman somewhere in her fifties, named Claire who always greeted Meg with a welcoming smile.

***

The Christmas Holidays had started and Meg was back in Mystery to get a tree and some decorations. When she drove past the skating rink in the center of town, and saw John skating with two little boys, she parked the car and walked over to the rink to watch them. They were all great skaters even the smallest boy; he could probably skate before he could walk. Meg enjoyed seeing John having fun, delighted that he looked so happy and relaxed. When he noticed her, he skated her way, smiling broadly.

“Back in town again, you better take care, it grows on you.”

“I know. I’ll consider myself warned.”

The boys came skating up, looking at Meg with curiosity. They resembled John; it was strange to see his eyes in their faces.

“So, these are your sons.”

“Yes. This is Joey,” he pointed at the eldest boy, “and this is Jamie .”

“Hi, I’m Meg.”

Joey looked at her coolly. “Are you my father’s friend?”

Taken a little aback by his question, Meg slowly answered, “Yes… I guess I am.”

“Do you skate?”

“Hmm. I did when I was young, but it’s been at least fifteen years.”

Joey smirked and turned to his father. “She can’t skate.”

“Are you challenging me?” Meg said, suppressing a smile.

John laughed. “Do you feel like trying?”

“Well, can I get skates here?”

“Sure,” he pointed at a stand at the other side of the rink; “You can get them there.”

Meg smiled at Joey. “I will probably make a fool of myself, but that would please you, wouldn’t it?”

His return smile was as devastatingly gorgeous as his father's was. “Maybe you’ll be alright.”

As Meg put the figure skates on and took her first wobbly strikes, she wondered why in the hell she had let a seven-year old challenge her on the ice; she was likely to break a leg and it would serve her right. The Biebe men were smiling benevolently. When she went flat on her bum, Joey and Jamie laughed so hard, they went down too. John slid over and pulled her back on her feet.

“You’re a bit rusty.”

“Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not,” he said with a twisting mouth. “We’ll help you, won’t we guys?”

So they skated around holding hands, John on her right side, holding Jamie with his other hand and Joey on her left side. Meg wasn’t too sure this was such a good idea, for they were gaining speed rapidly, but soon she forgot her fear of falling and found her balance. They let go of her and after a few rounds she successfully skated backwards and even managed a little spin, gaining applause from the boys. John watched her interact with his sons. It was clear they liked her. With Joey, he could always tell by the amount of teasing. Meg’s bright red cheeks and radiant eyes betrayed she was enjoying herself too. They stayed on the ice for another hour, until John suggested going to Claire’s for hot chocolate.

If Claire was surprised to see them enter as a foursome, she didn’t let on.

“Hey, my favorite men in the whole world!” And to Meg, “Hi.”

When they finished their chocolate, the boys went outside again to play. John warned them to stay on the sidewalk. Meg turned to him. “It must be wonderful to have the boys, I’m happy for you.”

“Yes, I have them until New Years Day, then Donna’s parents will pick them up.” He sighed. “It is wonderful to have them home, but when I look at them at night, when they are sleeping, and I think of them leaving again…”

“They are lovely boys, they look like you.”

“Are you saying that I’m lovely?” he asked, teasing her.

“Hmm…hard to tell with all that hair, maybe if you like bears…”

John grinned back at her sparkling eyes and involuntarily ran a hand through his thick hair. Meg thought he indeed was lovely but wasn’t about to tell him.

Judge Walter Burns walked in and took a seat next to John and soon the two men were talking about an upcoming court case and as Meg still had to get her Christmas tree, she said goodbye and left.

Claire noticed John following her with his eyes. She winked at him and said; “You’re right, Johnny, she is quite nice.”

“You do realize who she is, of course,” Judge Burns said. Two pairs of eyes looked at him in question.

“Well, she’s that pediatrician that got arrested on suspicion of killing a patient about a year ago. It never got to court because there wasn’t any evidence, but the media tore her to pieces over it. As I remember correctly, she actually accused the boy’s mother. What was her name again… Vermont , that’s it…Margaret Vermont.”

Both Claire and John looked at the Judge dumbstruck.

“ Jesus!” Claire said, “I remember that. Never believed she had anything to with it though, the story seemed too far fetched, and now that I’ve met her, I believe it even less.”

John didn’t respond. He just stared out the window, to where Meg had disappeared.

***

After Meg finished her shopping, she decided to return to the pub. The loneliness of the cabin was getting to her sometimes and she didn’t feel like going back to it yet. It wasn’t very busy inside and when she took a seat at the bar, Claire walked up to her and held out her hand. “We’ve never been properly introduced, I’m Claire,” 

Meg shook it. “I’m Meg.”

Claire’s intelligent blue eyes looked upon her with undisguised curiosity. “I know. Mystery woman and writer.”

Meg had to laugh. “Is that the general consensus?”

“Well…lately I’ve heard some other things about you too, but I like to make up my own mind.”

Meg sighed. “Yeah, I can imagine what that’s about. Guess staying incognito was too much to hope for.”

Claire still watched her steadily. “You can tell me your side of the story one day. You look like you could use a friend.”

Suddenly Meg felt the tears burn behind her eyes. Claire put one big hand over Meg’s and said, “I’m sorry, didn’t mean to make you cry.”

Meg forced herself to smile. “No, it’s just that…you’re right, I could use a friend. I don’t know what I’ve been thinking. I’ve never been alone for such a long time in my life. It seemed like a good idea back in New York , but now…reality isn’t what I thought it would be.”

Claire laughed. “It never is, honey, it never is. So, what can I get you?”

“Coffee please.”

Claire made her a coffee and when she served it with a large brandy. “You need something a little stronger than that,” she said with a wink. “I’ll be right back.”

Claire went about to help other customers and Meg sat quietly sipping her coffee and brandy. The alcohol spread warm comfort through her stomach, calming her down.

Claire returned and said, “If you like, I could come over to your place Monday night, that’s my night off. We could just talk, get to know each other a bit.”

Meg observed the other woman’s face, from the clear, intelligent eyes to the friendly smile. She nodded. “Yes, I would like that. Will you stay for dinner? I’m not a great cook, but I do make a mean pot roast.”

“Hmm. Yes, I’ve heard about your pot roast.”

Meg raised her eyebrows in question.

“ Johnny told me.”

“Oh,” Suddenly feeling shy.

Claire winked at her. “Don’t worry, John and I are old friends, he said nothing but nice things about you. Speaking of the devil…” She turned her attention to someone who just entered the pub. “Hi, Johnny.”

Meg turned on her seat to greet him, but the moment their eyes met, she knew things had changed. There was no trace of the gorgeous smile he had given her before; he looked at her with cops’ eyes.

He nodded. “Mrs. Vermont .”

Meg’s face went dead white. He had said it slow and clear, leaving no room for misunderstanding. It was deliberately cruel and it hurt. She took a deep breath and gazed back at him steadily.

“It’s Stendahl. Vermont was my husband’s name and as we are no longer married, I don’t use his name anymore.” She placed some money on the counter and said to Claire. “I’m looking forward to Monday.”

She stood up and left the pub.

Claire looked at John. “That was nasty and uncalled for. What’s the matter with you? I thought you liked her.”

“Well, she isn’t exactly who she claims to be, is she?”

“How would you know, have you spoken to her? Have you asked her? Have you given her the chance to tell her side of the story?” Claire angrily spat the words at him. “I’ll tell you something, John Biebe, you are not the only person in the world who’s been given a raw deal. For one she was never officially accused but nevertheless torn to pieces by the press without a chance to defend herself and that makes me sick.” She leaned over the counter so that her face was close up to his. “And what makes me even more sick is seeing someone like you treat that girl the way you just did, after she was nothing but nice to you.”

She turned and went to help her other customers, leaving John standing there feeling guilty.

***

That Monday night by the time Claire called, the pot roast was already simmering in the oven, spreading a scent of thyme and garlic around the cabin. Claire produced a bottle of vodka from her bag. It was a big bag, bulky and heavy and Meg couldn’t help but wonder what other surprises Claire kept in there. Claire was blatantly curious, walking through to the living room, taking a good look round. She dropped down on the couch and kicked off her boots, laughing at Meg’ look of amazement. “Don’t worry, I’m harmless.”

Meg smiled back. “Now I’m really worried. You want some orange with that vodka?”

“Naa,” said Claire, “let’s live dangerously.”

“Your life motto?”

“Close enough.”

Meg got the glasses and poured, handed one over to Claire.

“Cheers, here’s to living dangerously…”

Claire smiled wryly at her. “Seems to me you’ve had your share.”

Meg half-shrugged. “Guess it’s all relative, but…yes…it’s been rough, but you know…somehow I have the feeling that it will all turn out for the best. I mean…take my marriage…I really wouldn’t want to be married to my ex anymore.”

“What happened?”

“Basically, it wasn’t a smart career move for him to stay married to me, so when the shit hit the fan, he dumped me.”

“Oh, fuck! That must have been hard.”

“At the time I thought it was, but in hindsight… no, not really. I don’t think I ever loved him. We were colleagues and I used to think we had a lot in common. Both of us made our careers the most important thing in our lives. As it turned out the status his job entailed was everything for Geoffrey. He wanted to be the next Director General, and with me as his wife, he would never have gotten the job. I don’t think I even liked him.”  She gave Claire an impish grin. “The sex was great though, that counts for something, doesn’t it?”

Claire laughed out loud. “Mmm…it does help. Did you fight him?”

“No. I didn’t see the point and frankly, I wasn’t up for a fight at that time. No, we got a clean break. There was nothing I wanted from him, no alimony, nothing. Therefore, we were in agreement pretty fast. I moved out of the apartment, it had been his in the first place and already completely furnished, so I never brought anything in. I just packed my bags and left. Never looked back.”

“It didn’t hurt?”

“Well, it hurt that he shoved me aside so easily.” Meg smiled. “My father was very happy we got the divorce, he never understood why I married ‘the asshole’ in the first place. He’d never liked Geoffrey.” She stood up. “Let’s go to the kitchen, I need to check on the roast.”

Claire took a seat at the kitchen table and after she checked the casserole Meg joined her.

“I remember reading about your father, didn’t he die shortly after?” Claire asked.

“Yes. He had a heart attack after Christmas last year. The tabloids wrote that he’d died from disappointment in me. That was the hardest thing…I’m sure he died of a broken heart…but not for that reason. He was completely shattered by what the media were allowed to do to me. It wasn’t the shock of the initial accusation; I mean…that was so ridiculous that even the police had to admit there was nothing to substantiate the accusations and the DA threw it out the moment she heard of it. We thought that would be the end of it, just a bad nightmare, something to forget and get on with life.”

“I remember the article in TIME. That was what started it, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.” Meg got up and checked the roast again. “It’s ready, let’s eat first.”

She set the plates and got a bottle of Burgundy .

Claire tasted the roast. “Mmm, this is really good, you must give me the recipe. I’m always looking for new dishes for the pub.”

Meg smiled. “Sure, no problem.”

“Tell me how it all started.”

“It started over two years ago, when Gladys Anderson brought in her three-year-old son Peter for the first time. It looked as if he’d had a fit, he had trouble breathing, and he was in a very bad state. It was clear that his heart rhythm was badly disturbed, but I couldn’t find any ground for his troubles, medically there was no reason for him to be so sick. After a few days, he seemed perfectly fine and his mother took him home again. I forgot about him, until the next time she brought him in, and it was the same story all over again.”

Meg looked troubled remembering. “I had a bad feeling about the mother. I don’t know why. Everyone else seemed to like her, but there was something about her, it just made the hairs in the back of my neck stand out. Do you know the feeling?”

Claire nodded, “Yes, I do.”

“It’s like a sixth sense. She was always very nice, talking to the nurses and doctors all the time, seeming to have a large knowledge of medical matters. She was always there, all the time, very distraught and worried, like you would expect a mother of a sick child to be, but still…I couldn’t get my finger on it. After a few days, Peter was better again and she took him home. However, this time, I didn’t forget about him, I kept searching for answers. I read everything possible about children becoming mysteriously ill and during my search I came across the Munchhausen by Proxy Syndrome. You know what that is?”

“Isn’t it some sort of disease that causes parents to hurt their children to get attention?”

“Yes. Mostly mothers causing a disease in their children. According to psychiatrists who have examined these cases, these mothers have a need to feel "special" or heroic to get attention from family, friends, and the medical professions. I’ve read stories about children who had been admitted to hospital over 200 times before doctors became suspicious.”

Claire shook her head. “That’s just terrible.”

Meg agreed. “Yes, it is. In Peter’s case, I suspected his mother to suffer from this syndrome. I was sure that she somehow had restricted his breathing. You wouldn’t believe the cases I’ve read about this. Mothers harming their babies by holding a hand over the mouth, fingers over the nostrils, lying on top of the baby, placing plastic or cling film over the baby’s face, all ways which leave little or no forensic evidence, too horrible to think about. I set out to find evidence, like other hospital records on Peter, but I found nothing. Peter got better again and we had to release him, but when Mrs. Anderson brought him back a couple of months later, all my warning lights were on red alert and I called in the father. He hadn’t been around on any of the prior occasions.”

Meg face was pale and drawn. “The talk wasn’t a success. I had hoped he would give me some insight on his son’s general health, because if I was right about the mother, he’d probably been abused from birth. I had expected Mr. Anderson to be worried or maybe defensive because he hadn’t been there before when his son was so ill, but I met a wall of suspicion and hostility. I admit I lost my temper and I actually accused Mrs. Anderson of abusing Peter.”

She gave Claire a wry smile. “That wasn’t very smart. Mark Anderson didn’t take kindly to me incriminating his wife. He raised hell. They tried to take the child from us, but Peter was too sick to be moved and he died that night. I hadn’t been able to prevent his mother from being with him all night and I’m sure she caused his death. We never did find out what killed him.”

Meg had to stop. Claire poured more wine in both their glasses and Meg took a big swig before continuing.

“You know what happened next. The Andersons accused me of malpractice, blaming me for Peter’s death. I was completely blown away by their audacity, but as it turned out, they had connections inside the NYPD and I was arrested. It was all too crazy to be true. I was only kept in custody for a couple of hours and of course, I told the investigating officers about my suspicions concerning the mother, but they didn’t believe me. Somehow, people are very reluctant to believe these kinds of things of mothers. But anyway, the DA told them they had no case and ordered my release.” She smiled wryly. “I thought that was the end of it, how stupid can you get, huh?”

They had finished their dinner and moved to the living room, taking coffee and brandy with them.

Claire urged Meg to go on.

“That was when the article in TIME appeared. Because it was TIME magazine, it did a lot of damage. They had interviews with people I’d forgotten I knew, all sorts of people commenting on me, on my mental state of mind, my character… old classmates, teachers, parents of patients, even old neighbors…it was devastating. Suddenly I was this ‘doctor from hell’. I had my lawyer look at it, but it was very cleverly done. They didn’t state any of it as the truth, just as other peoples opinions.”

“I remember the article. It looked very damaging, but in fact they had nothing substantiated in it. I never believed the story, it always felt far-fetched and without any basis.”

Meg smiled wearily at Claire. “Thank you, that means a lot to me. Luckily, a lot of other people believed me too, but the sheer amount of ludicrous innuendo and gossip that followed that article was incredible. I felt like I was declared an outlaw and the shooting season was opened. Every two-bit tabloid had something on me, from so-called ‘experts’ discussing me, to lunatics telling stories about how I’d claimed to be kidnapped by aliens. Eventually the hospital felt I couldn’t function under such stress and they put me on suspension. What they meant of course was that it was bad for business to keep me there. I quit and of course that set off a whole new series of wild stories.

Meg sighed. “I was completely crushed after that. Then on top of everything Geoffrey announced he wanted a divorce… I went back to live with my father. It wasn’t until after my father died that I got really angry.”

“What did you do?”

“My father left me a very substantial amount of money and I used part of it to hire a private investigator. I have Gladys Anderson followed night and day.”

“Gladys Anderson? What do you hope to gain from that?”

“They have two other children and if I’m right about Mrs. Anderson, she won’t stop. Now that most of the attention over Peter’s death has died down, I’m sure she will start hurting one of the other children. And when she does, we will be ready for her.”

“ Jesus! Are you sure?”

“No, not really. But it’s all I can hope for. Isn’t that terrible? The only way I can rehabilitate myself is if she starts harming another child.”

“That’s horrible.”

“And it’s a long shot. Munchhausen by Proxy Syndrome is very controversial. Within the medical community there is no consensus about it, so I could be wrong all the way.”

“But you don’t think so.”

“No. I don’t. I know it in my gut. She will start harming her next child and all I can do is hope we will get to her on time.”

Meg emptied her brandy and poured another. “We did find out that Andrew Barker, the journalist who wrote the article for TIME is connected to Anderson .”

Claire looked at her with big eyes. “Never!”

“It’s true. He’s Mark Anderson’s half brother.”

“I don’t believe it. Why didn’t you use that knowledge?”

“Because I’m waiting. I’m waiting for them to make a mistake and when they do, we will come down on them with everything we got.”

“What will you do when you get proof?”

“Have them prosecuted, go to trail and get my life back, finish the book, rehabilitate myself.”

“So, you’re after revenge,” Claire said.

“I don’t want revenge, I want justice.”

Claire lifted her glass. “Okay, to justice.”

***

After half a bottle of vodka, several glasses of Burgundy and brandy, both Meg and Claire started feeling the impact. Meg looked at Claire through squinted eyes. “You’re not driving home tonight. You can stay here, use the spare room.”

Claire giggled. “Yeah, I’d better. Although the thought of being pulled over by our gorgeous sheriff is quite appealing.”

“I thought you were old friends.”

“Oh, we are. And I’m too old for him anyway, but that doesn’t stop him from being gorgeous.”

Meg answered with a sad look in her eyes. “No, it doesn’t.”

“You’ve noticed then?”

“I’d have to be fucking blind not to notice.”

“You know, I thought he treated you terribly and I told him so.”

“It doesn’t matter. We’ve only met a couple of times, it’s not like we were old friends.”

Claire pushed herself upright. “It does matter, you were hurt, I could tell.”

“Yes…it’s true…I really liked him…and I thought he liked me.” Meg shrugged dispiritedly. “But he’s a cop, and I haven’t had too much luck with cops lately. I guess it comes natural to them to be suspicious.”

“I’ve never seen him react in this way, it’s so not like him…” Claire’s voice was getting a bit slurred. “He told you what happened to him, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he did. Guess that’s what I meant with things being relative. I lost my career and my father, but compared to what John has lost, it almost seems trivial. I can’t imagine what it must feel like to lose a child. I mean…I have seen it around me of course. I’ve had to be the one to tell the parents on some occasions…but until it happens to you, you can never know.”

“It almost killed him, and then Donna walked out…they were never officially divorced, you know. He never told me why, but I suspect he still hoped she would be back some day. I’ve feared for him for a long time. He was hitting the bottle hard in those days. If it hadn’t been for the loyalty of his deputy and the patience of our mayor, he wouldn’t still be sheriff. He’s doing much better now, but still…he has trouble sleeping…nightmares. But you know about those.”

“He told you? Yes, I witnessed that when he was here. He fell asleep on the couch and when he woke up…it was horrible.”

Claire gave her a sly smile. “Ah, you see? You do care, I knew the moment I saw you two together…you could be the best thing that could happen to Johnny…”

“Don’t let your imagination run away with you, I’m not staying here. I’m here for one-year max. And if things move faster than that in New York , I’m gone even sooner.”

“We’ll see, sometimes life has a way to surprise you, you know.”

Meg laughed. “What I do know is that we should hit the sack, look at you, you can hardly keep your eyes open. So come on, you drunken slob, I’ll get you to bed.”

***

Part Two

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