Lost Friday

By Michael Bronte

The date on the newspaper reads Saturday, September 25th, and the entire population of Sea Beach, New Jersey, wakes up with no recollection of what happened to Friday the 24th. Reporter Johnny Pappas is among the baffled residents, as is Chief of Police Roy Mulroney. It’s only when Johnny discovers the disappearance of high school quarterback David Robelle that the fog over this mystery begins to lift. It seems that the ransom note left by David’s kidnappers was written with no known technology. Actually, it wasn’t “written” at all. The note just appears in David’s room, hanging in midair, looking exactly the same from any angle, impervious to any attempts to change the words or cover them up. It’s the first indication that something very, very different is happening in Sea Beach.
Johnny and Roy piece together what little evidence there is, coming to the unfathomable conclusion that they’ve been visited by futuristic time travelers from the International Counter Terrorist Organization, or the ICTO, while others are from a terrorist group called the Red Diamond. Despite the names, it’s almost impossible to tell the good guys from the bad guys, and it’s very clear that both groups are after the same objective. In the future, time travel becomes an overpowering geopolitical weapon, enabling those who control the technology to intervene in historical events so that historical outcomes fall to their favor. Both groups want to make sure they are the only ones to control this powerful capability, and both have come back to affect and control events toward this result. The influence extends all the way to the White House.
Unbelievably, the invention of time travel centers around David Robelle and the citizens of Sea Beach, although none of them know it yet. As an investigative reporter, it doesn’t take Johnny all that long to figure it out, and ultimately he becomes the pivotal figure in the struggle over who will control the technology and historical events as they originally occurred. Time travel, futuristic human clones called Synthetics, editions of newspapers that haven’t even been written yet, it’s all part of Lost Friday. Johnny has three objectives: cover the story as a reporter, win the romantic attention of fellow reporter Kelli Remington, and rescue David Robelle from the terrorists. Oh yeah, saving the world from futuristic terrorists might be all well and good, but he’d also like to win a Pulitzer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Bronte
• Release date: Aug 29, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311828897

Michael Bronte

Michael Bronte is a graduate of Union College in Schenectady, New York, and George Washington University in Washington, D.C., and lives with his wife of 38 years in New Jersey. "All of the heroes in my novels are everyday people," says Bronte. "Any of them could by your next door neighbor. None of us really know what we're capable of until the time comes for us to reach beyond the boundaries of our everyday lives. Remarkable feats of courage are performed everyday, by everyday people. It's amazing."​ As a young teenager I remember reading paperback mysteries under a huge oak tree outside my parents’ neighborhood grocery store in Dalton, Massachusetts, a small town located in the heart of the Berkshires. I can recall pulling a book from the rack and getting locked in to those novels as the fragrant summer breeze of Berkshire County tried to turn the page before I was done reading it. I don’t know why, but I was greatly affected by a book titled The Fan Club, by Irving Wallace. When I was done reading it, I can still recall thinking that someday I’d be able to write a book like that on my own; I knew I could do it.Well, the idea stayed dormant for over thirty years while I did what I thought I should have been doing for a living (looking back, it all seems so trivial sometimes) until I rekindled my infatuation with writing novels. Now, many years after that, and many mistakes and many failures later, there are several Michael Bronte novels available for those of you who like mystery, suspense, action-oriented stories with true-to-life characters.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

His headlights reflected off a cloud of cold predawn dew hovering over the landscape. The days were definitely getting shorter, thought Roy, noting that the sun seemed to be having trouble getting up this morning. Before long, the vacation bungalows would be shut up tight, and even on weekends there would be nary a tanned tourist in sight. He pulled into the Wawa and went inside, plunking down a buck for his twenty-ounce morning decaf. For everyone else a twenty-ounce coffee was a buck-sixteen, but he and the store’s owner had been fishing buddies since grade school and Norm always cut him a sixteen-cent break on the coffee. Ah, the many perks of being Chief of Police.

Mornin’, Norm. How are the stripers running?

Heard they brought in a forty-pounder off the surf yesterday.

Roy took a moment. A forty-pounder was worth checking into. Where’d it come in?

Southern tip of the park, somewhere around mile marker fifteen, I think. You working tomorrow?

Roy knew exactly what Norm was thinking. Nope. Got the weekend off. You?

Indicating the elegant surroundings of his convenience store, Norm said, Hey, I’m an independent businessman. I can take off whenever I want. You wanna give it a whirl?

Wouldn’t mind a bit, Roy said. I haven’t cast a line since spring. Just need to clear it with the missus in case I made other plans.

Norm smiled. Tell the old ball-and-chain I said hello. With that, he hoisted a bundle of newspapers to the counter. He cut the plastic tie and pulled one out, opening it to the fishing page in the sports section. Let’s see, says here high tide is just before seven. We’ll have to get there early.

Not a problem, Roy said, suddenly aware that he was the only one in the store. He looked at his watch. It was almost six, and, knowing that on most days it seemed as if every construction worker on the Jersey Shore stopped by Norm’s convenience store for his morning coffee and pork roll sandwich, he asked, Kind of slow this morning, ain’t it?

I was just thinking the same thing, Norm replied. Something special happening around town?

Roy shot a gaze through the plate glass windows, noting that the sun was finally peeking over the tree line and burning a gray-blue streak on the horizon. Not that I know of, he said just as a couple of pickups pulled up. Here they come now, Norm. I’ll call you later, okay?

Gimme a buzz on the cell phone, Norm said, putting the newspaper back on the stack. I’ll be out and about. Roy stepped away from the counter just as Norm added, That’s strange.

What’s strange?

They got a misprint in the paper. See the date? It’s for tomorrow. Norm’s eyes floated up to meet Roy’s. Today is Friday, isn’t it?

As far as I know. Roy checked the date on his watch. Coincidently, it read 25, the date for Saturday, September 25th, not Friday, September 24th. Odd, he thought. His watch was wrong too. I’ll call you later, he said abruptly, realizing now that he needed to get to the station.

Call me on the cell phone, Norm yelled again as Roy pushed through the door.

Roy ticked off a backhanded wave and fired up his old F-150 pickup. Clanking along Ocean Avenue, he thought: a forty-pounder. That must have been some battle, especially off the surf. Wonder what they caught it on. Clam snouts, probably. Couldn’t go wrong with clam snouts. He hung a left onto Center Street, which was also Route 9, noting that the blue-gray streak on the horizon was turning into an orange glow. Looked like it might turn into a hot one for late September. He pushed on the accelerator and popped through the light where Center Street crossed over the Garden State Parkway. Two minutes later, he pulled into his private parking spot behind the Boro of Sea Beach Police Station, the building that had been his home-away-from-home for the last thirty years. Roy moved quickly, knowing that Johnson would want to hightail it home to Tuckerton before his wife left for work. Newlyweds were like that. Sure enough, Johnson was just putting the finishing touches on his shift log as Roy walked in.

Mornin’, Chief. Thought I heard you pull in. Mind if I skedaddle?

No, you go ahead. Collins will probably be his usual fifteen minutes late. Everything all right?

Everything is fine. We haven’t had a call all night. Amazing how quiet it gets with all the summer folks gone.

Peace and quiet, Roy said. Just the way I like it. He set down his coffee, woke up his computer, and immediately dipped into his email. What time are the state boys due in?

What state boys? Johnson replied as he shrugged into his windbreaker.

Roy looked up. The state boys, you know: the prisoner transfer? Hello? Roy shot a thumb over his shoulder at the thick steel door that opened to the holding cells.

Johnson’s eyebrows knitted themselves into a tight line. What prisoner transfer, Chief? We don’t have anybody back there.

Roy felt a chill up his spine. What do you mean, we don’t have anybody back there?

I don’t mean to be a smart-ass, Chief, but what the heck are you talking about?

Roy’s chill turned colder as he bolted from his chair. Putting his nose to the viewing window, he observed quite clearly that Johnson wasn’t yanking his chain. There were three prisoners in there when I went home last night, Johnson. Where’d they go? Johnson was looking at him sideways.

Chief, there ain’t nobody been back there since I came in. You can ask DiNardo if you like. He should be coming in off patrol any minute.

Maybe he’d lost it, thought Roy. He took a seat and actually pinched himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. There were three prisoners back there, all of them being trucked up from somewhere in the Carolinas to stand trial in Jersey City. Johnson, who was here when you reported in last night?

O’Malley was on dispatch when I came in.

Roy shot a glance at the duty roster posted on the large whiteboard on the wall. O’Malley wasn’t on last night. O’Malley is on tonight.

I know what O’Malley looks like, Chief. She was on last night, and she didn’t brief me on no prisoner transfer.

His anxiety sizzling, Roy walked up to the duty roster and pounded a thick index finger onto O’Malley’s name. O’Malley is scheduled for tonight, Johnson. Keller should have been on dispatch last night, and I want to know why he didn’t brief you on the prisoner transfer. Hell, I want to know what happened to those goddamned prisoners!

Chief, Keller was on dispatch Thursday night. Last night was Friday, and O’Malley was on, just like the schedule says.

Friday? Roy looked at his watch again, noting the date once more. The newspaper: he remembered Norm’s comment about the misprint. Johnson? What day is it?

Johnson dropped a look that needed no explanation. Today is Saturday, Chief, September 25th. Are you okay, Chief?

Knees rubbery, Roy walked back to his desk. He checked the date on his computer. It read Saturday the 25th. What happened to Friday the 24th, and what happened to the three prisoners who were in those holding cells?

* * * * *

Bank president Ben McDermott whistled out the door, singing, I’m late, I’m late—for a very important date. Dropping his travel mug into the cup holder, he wheeled his Dodge minivan out of the driveway, and pulled into the employee parking area outside the Sea Beach Community Bank with two minutes to spare. He prided himself on being the example of punctuality at the bank. Inside, still singing, I’m late, I’m late—for a very important date, he stopped dead in his tracks as his branch manager rushed towards him, her features twisted in distress.

Mister McDermott, I see you got my message. This way.

Hesitating, noticing Louise’s two tellers standing nervously outside the tellers’ cages, What message? McDermott asked.

Well, I know you normally don’t come in on Saturday, so I called your house. Your wife said you were already on your way in, and I asked her to call you on your cell phone with the news.

McDermott touched his hip, realizing that, in his rush, he’d forgotten his cell phone. Suddenly, the words hit him. Today is Friday, Louise, and what news?

Louise’s hands were shaking, and her gaze caught him flush on. Today is Saturday, Mister McDermott, and the back vault is completely empty. You need to come with me.

* * * * *

Must be a hell of a traffic jam somewhere, Coach Lucas thought as he pulled into his parking space. Only about half the teachers’ spaces were occupied. Tucking his playbook under his arm, he grabbed his lunch bag and trotted across the lot to the teachers’ entrance adjacent to the gym. Vice Principal Morgantheau was already moving down the corridor toward him, her large body quivering as her heels pounded the gleaming tile floor outside his office.

Brian, I was just coming to see you.

Margaret, you look upset. Is everything all right?

Upset doesn’t even come close, Coach. Over half the teachers haven’t come in, and we haven’t heard a word from any of them. We’re canceling all the phys-ed classes this morning, and I need you to cover one of the home rooms and a couple of study halls until we figure out what this is all about.

Sure, no problem. I noticed all the empty parking spaces. Is anybody calling to see what the hell is going on?

We just started, Morgantheau responded. Just then, the walkie-talkie on her hip went off. Yes, she snapped.

Lucas listened attentively. Ms. Morgantheau, this is Freeda in admin. Have you been to your office yet?

Raising her eyes, Morgantheau said, No, why?

Lucas shook his head, indicating he hadn’t made it to his office either, which was only a few feet away.

We just switched the phones off night mode, and there must be a hundred messages here asking about yesterday.

What about yesterday? Morgantheau shot back. Did we miss a teachers’ conference or something? Her face softened and she made a waving motion.

Ah, Lucas surmised along with her. That was it: another screw up, but he didn’t recall there being any teachers’ conference scheduled yesterday, or today either.

No, nothing like that, Freeda crackled back. Evidently the school was closed yesterday.

The school wasn’t closed. I was here. You were here too. What are you talking about, Freeda?

I’m only relaying what the messages say, Freeda replied. They say none of the students showed up, Mrs. Morgantheau, and none of the teachers who live in town showed up either. I’m starting to think I’m crazy.

Morgantheau said, This has to be some sort of prank.

Lucas flashed a time-out sign and asked, "Does that mean that the teachers who live outside Sea Beach showed up?"

Morgantheau posed the question, and added, Freeda, the teachers who are here today, do they live in town, or out of town?

Freeda paused. Now that you mention it, I think that everyone who’s here today lives in town.

Morgantheau clicked off. Coach, can I use your computer?

Of course, Lucas replied, pulling his keys. Inside, the locker room smelled like liniment, and rolls of athletic tape littered the floor. He kicked the tape aside and pulled up a chair for Morgantheau in his office. Pushing a button on his computer, he said, It’ll be a minute. This machine is as slow as molasses.

Don’t let me hold you up from anything you need to do to get ready for that homeroom coverage, Coach. There’s bound to be an explanation for all this in my e-mail.

Lucas gave her a weak smile as he set down his play book and picked up his laminated cheat-sheet, as he called it: his double-sided list of plays, highlighted in various colors. He figured he could map out the game plan for tonight’s game against Barnegat while he was covering the study halls. He noted his message light blinking and figured he’d check his voice mail while Morgantheau tried to figure things out. There had to be a rational explanation. He punched up the first message, and the blood drained from his face.

Seeing his expression, Morgantheau said, Is everything all right, Coach?

Lucas felt like his veins were buzzing. I’m not sure yet, he said, catching Morgantheau’s look. Am I dreaming too, or were we supposed to play Barnegat tonight?

Of course, Coach. We have a pep rally scheduled for this afternoon.

From what I just heard, the game was last night—and we forfeited.

Forfeited? How could we have forfeited?

Evidently, we never showed up.

Chapter 1… Lost Friday

I opened my eyes, and the light stabbed through like a rusty sword. Damn, I thought, I hadn’t felt that bad since my college days. I staggered into the bathroom and took one look at myself, figuring I must have had one hell of a time. I vaguely remembered stuffing a dollar bill into a g-string that was way smaller than the dollar; I also remembered it might have been my last dollar until payday. Yessiree, that was some bachelor party we threw for old Murph. I wondered how he’d feel at the wedding. The wedding! I needed to pick up my tuxedo by noon. What the hell time was it?

I re-staggered into the bedroom and saw that I had plenty of time. Thank God for small favors, my mother always said. The wedding was an evening affair, with the ceremony around five, and the reception about forty minutes away on Long Beach Island. I had some time to recuperate. I laid back down and closed my eyes, pleased that I’d had to foresight to know I’d be feeling like crap after the bachelor party, and, as such, had arranged to go in late to work. I didn’t have any deadlines, and, to my editor’s delight, all my features were in on time for a change. Basically, I figured I’d mosey in and jack around with my e-mail for a while, then leave early to make up for going in late.

I was just lying there waiting for the swirlies to go away, when I thought about the time again. The clock showed that it was just after eight, which meant I’d only gotten about four hours sleep, but that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that the digital readout, which showed the day-and-date along with the time, read SAT for Saturday, not FRI for Friday, and the date read 25, not 24. I knew I was probably not entirely sober yet, but I didn’t think I was still so buzzed that I couldn’t read the freakin’ clock correctly. Painfully, I swung another look. Right: SAT and 25, not FRI and 24. Okay, someone was screwing with me. Somehow, some way, one of those jackass friends of mine had gotten into my apartment and messed around with the clock just to frost my doo-dads. Well it worked. I closed my eyes again and tried to catch a few z’s, but the time thing gnawed on me, and when something gnaws on me I’ve got to get to the bottom of it. It’s what makes me such a damned good reporter—which my editor would never admit, of course. Anyway, I knew the z’s would evade me until I solved this little conundrum. I turned—damn, my head hurt—and grabbed the remote off the nightstand, flipping on the little fourteen-inch TV I’d had since my college days. Cartoons. Since when did they run cartoons on a network station on a Friday morning? Where were Matt and Meredith? Inside my brain, I went, Oh-oh.

I stood up and scratched said doo-dads, denying there was any possibility that I’d slept through an entire day and completely missed the wedding. The pain in my head suddenly took a back seat to the pain in my heart, which had sunk into my stomach and lay there like a manhole cover. I was supposed to have been Murph’s best man. There had to be some other explanation. I shuffled to the front door and opened it. Sure enough, there lay a copy of the Asbury Park Press, along with a copy of the New York Times. I got the Asbury Park Press because I worked there, and it was free. I got the Times because I wanted to keep up on what the no-talent hacks there were writing. I almost didn’t dare to pick up either of them. When I did, I compared the date on both papers, and they were the same: Saturday, September 25th. Wait a minute. My story on the new Pinelands antidevelopment regulations was supposed to run on Saturday. I quickly turned to page two in the Press and there it was: Is Zero Development Really The Answer? by Johnny Pappas. Jesus H. Christ, I thought. I’d been asleep for an entire day, and I had completely missed the wedding? Really? Murph was gonna be pissed.

* * * * *

I got over the urge to crawl into a corner and die and decided to go down to the diner and get something into my stomach. I didn’t take my cell phone with me, figuring any calls about my well-being would quickly deteriorate into attacks on my character once the caller found out I wasn’t dead. I couldn’t blame anyone, really. I was even down on myself.

Sea Beach wasn’t much of a town in the off-season, and the end of September was definitely approaching that time. The seasonal residents came in mostly on weekends now, probably because they owned a place and felt obligated to use it, but also because it was so peaceful, a distinct difference from the height of summer when the boardwalk bars rocked every night of the week with Jersey Shore partiers. I pulled into the parking lot behind the diner, surprised that I had trouble finding a parking space. I actually had to wait in line outside for a few minutes, which gave me an opportunity to get some oxygen into my system. It was as foggy there outside the diner as it was inside my head, and the air was damp and cool going into my lungs. It felt like I was inhaling a piece of the ocean itself. The owner came out with some menus and spotted me at the end of the line. The owner was my first cousin on my father’s side, Demetrius Manos.

You by yourself, Johnny? I got a spot at the counter, if you want it.

I said, Thanks Demetrius, that would be fine. I smiled and nodded at a couple of people whose face I recognized, but whose name I didn’t remember—I’m terrible with names, a bad trait for a reporter—and took a seat on the counter.

Demetrius laid down a menu and a coffee at the same time. You look like you could use this.

Thanks a lot, I said smartly, and I shoveled some sugar into the cup. The coffee looked like motor oil, and it was perfect. If this didn’t get me going…. I caught my reflection in the stainless-steel panel behind the plate racks. I’m no Greek god, mind you, but I’m no Cyclops either. Normally, my tight, jet-black hair stays where it’s supposed to, and if I comb it right it gives me another inch, which means I’m able to tell the summer honeys on the boardwalk that I’m six-one and get away with it. This morning, it looked kind of spiked out, and my face looked like it was covered with ants, seeing as I hadn’t shaved in a while. I looked like a terrorist, and I hoped it was just the reflection. I stopped worrying about my appearance, and I started worrying about how I was going to explain my absence at the wedding to Murph. Surprisingly, I hadn’t gotten any messages from anyone on my cell phone or my regular phone cursing me out for not being there.

I ordered some pancakes and got a refill, when I started to tune in to my surroundings. Why was the place so busy? Sea Beach wasn’t but three thousand people in the off-season, and it looked like every single one of them was inside the diner.

Demetrius, I said, waving him over. What’s up with all the people?

Demetrius gave me a strange look, but it was clear that it wasn’t about my hair. Lost Friday, he said. I’m surprised you’re not writing about it.

It didn’t register. Demetrius, what’s Lost Friday?

Demetrius just turned and went to the cash register. He was back a second later with a legal pad and a pencil. Over there, he said, nodding toward the dining room area of the diner. You’re going to need to take some notes.

I looked over to where Demetrius had indicated, noticing that a crowd had gathered around one of the tables. A couple of people had cameras, and one of them looked like a professional photographer. As I sat there, a news van actually pulled up outside the diner with WTFX Philadelphia, Fox News 29 painted on the side.

You better get over there before you get shut out, Demetrius said.

I slurped down some coffee and squeezed my way over to the still-gathering crowd, flashing the press badge I kept in my wallet as I fought my way in. Once there, I wedged into the wall of bodies that took up an entire corner of the dining room, elbowing my way to the front. I’m good at that. When I finally got to where I could concentrate on something besides avoiding all the bad breath in the air, I was surprised to see Chief of Police Roy Mulroney sitting there, handling questions as if he were conducting a presidential press conference. I’ve known Roy for a long time—hell, he used to escort me home when drinking a couple of beers in the Pinelands with your friends wasn’t a capital offense—and I know Roy would rather have gotten a tooth pulled than sit in front of a group of reporters. It looked like he didn’t have much choice, however.

Spotting me, he said, Mornin’, Johnny. Where have you been?

A camera clicked somewhere behind my left ear, and I said, I don’t know, Roy. Where have we all been?

Chapter 2… Feeding Frenzy

Chief, are you saying the entire town is missing a day?

The microphone almost hit Roy in the face as the reporter from WTFX actually turned and smiled for the camera. I mean, was this something to smile about? I don’t think that schmuck reporter believed a word of what was being said, but he knew he had an exclusive, seeing as there were no other TV guys there—yet. He was milking the opportunity for all it was worth, and he looked at all of us newspaper guys like we were second stringers.

Roy held up his hands as if to push back the buzzing throng. As far as we can tell, yes, that’s the case. It seems that anyone who lives inside the town’s boundaries has no recollection at all about yesterday.

That would be Friday, September twenty-fourth. Is that correct?

Roy looked at the reporter the way he’d look at a mosquito that just landed on his arm. That’s correct.

Really, Chief, how is that possible?

Roy was pretty down-to-Earth and had about as much patience for sanctimonious people as he would the mosquito. He hauled his six-foot-four frame out of the chair and hulked over the reporter. Giving the mosquito a mental swat, he said, "I don’t know how it’s possible, son, but it happened. With that, Roy pushed through the crowd, and, surprisingly, shot a finger at me as he passed by. Outside," he said lowly.

It took a while for Roy to make it out of the diner, so I waited next to his truck while he took time to calm some of the townspeople who stepped into his path. Roy was a hell of a guy, Vietnam War hero, the whole nine yards, and people looked up to him. The mayor was only a part-time position in the boro, so for all intents and purposes, Roy was the man in town. I heard he once took two bullets in the back during a bank hold up and still managed to chase down two bad guys, one of whom somehow ended up with a broken neck. Roy has always maintained that he has no idea how that happened. I waited patiently until he patted everyone’s back and shook everyone’s hand, leaving each concerned citizen with a, Don’t worry, I’ll get to the bottom of this. They believed him, and I did too.

Reaching me, he speared me with a look I’d never seen before. I want you to be my spokesman on this, Johnny. The shit’s gonna start flying pretty soon, and this town is going to turn into a zoo. I need someone to handle all the media crap so I can concentrate on figuring out what the hell happened.

The way he said it, I don’t know if I really had a choice. On one condition, I said, bluffing my way along.

What’s that?

That I get the inside track on this thing.

Roy nodded slowly, and drawled, I think I can manage that. Let’s go to my office.

I hopped into my Corvette and followed his battered truck through the streets, noting there was barely a soul out there. All the bungalows were shuttered up tight, and the boardwalk looked as deserted as if everyone had been abducted by aliens. Perhaps it was so, I thought weirdly. Even the tackle shops were barren, and there were always a couple of four-wheelers parked there during striper season.

At the police station, Roy gave my ’Vette the eyeball and said, What do you do when you have to carry a suitcase?

Poor Roy. He just didn’t understand the importance of having a ’Vette. I take the Escalade when I have to carry anything bigger than my ego, I said comically.

Roy chuckled. You’d need a dump truck to carry that. He turned toward the station and questioned over his shoulder, Do you really have an Escalade?

I didn’t, of course. Hell, I’d bought the ’Vette used, and I could barely afford the payments on that, but I didn’t say anything. I found that in my line of work it was better to keep people guessing.

Inside, things were humming. During the summer, the population of Sea Beach went from about three thousand to forty thousand, and Roy employed a lot of part-time cops, using a lot of school teachers, grad students, and the like, guys and gals who basically baby-sat the out-of-towners and made sure they got back to their bungalows at night without running anybody over. The force expanded from its permanent eight officers to about thirty. As a result, there were a few empty desks inside the station, and the phones were ringing on every single one of them. The two officers on duty both had a regular phone and a cell phone in each ear, and both were talking a blue streak.

Roy ignored the hubbub and headed straight to his office. I want you to hold a press conference right away, he said, taking a seat behind his desk.

Like I said before, I know Roy, and there was no way he’d do that in order to call attention to the situation. Being the cunning reporter that I am, and, knowing that I needed to get my thoughts on the situation squared away pretty soon, I said, What do you want to accomplish with another press conference?

Control, he said. It’s already turning into a feeding frenzy out there … He thumbed somewhere through the wall. … and I don’t want the people in this town portrayed as a bunch of loonies. By the end of the day, we’ll have news crews here from every TV and radio station within driving distance, and by tomorrow the networks will be on this like stink-on-a-skunk. I need you to put a proper spin on this, Johnny.

I understood completely, but I had no clue on how I was going to accomplish that. I mean, damn! From the sound of it, the population of an entire town—but only the town—had lost all memory of an entire day! Who wouldn’t think we were all a bunch of loonies? I needed a foothold, and Roy was as good a place to start as any. I’d taken a notepad with me from the car, and I flipped it open.

What about you, Roy? What was the last thing you remember before this morning?

Roy drilled me with a look that told me he was weighing how much he could trust me. Probably about as much as he would trust an angry rattlesnake, I figured. He folded his hands over his full belly, and said, For me, Thursday night was pretty much like any other night. Went home to the missus, grilled a steak, watched some football on ESPN.

Nothing beyond that?

Nothing, but what does any of that have to do with—

I held up a hand. Bear with me, Chief, just for a minute. Roy held his tongue. Nothing beyond that? I repeated.

Nothing. Checked in with the station and went to bed around eleven.

Do you usually check in with the station?

Not always, but we were holding three prisoners on transfer up to Jersey City and I just wanted to make sure everything was all right.

And, was it?

According to Keller, it was. Sometimes we put a TV back in the cell area, and Keller did. It gives the prisoners something to do besides scratching their initials on the walls. They were probably watching the same football game I was.

When was the prisoner transfer supposed to take place? I asked, putting a string of thoughts together.

Roy shifted uncomfortably, and I noticed his bushy eyebrows had formed a line beneath his United States Marines baseball cap. It was supposed to happen on Friday—which I thought was today, he went on. I haven’t had time to check.

So, you don’t know if it actually happened.

No, I don’t, he said testily.

I’m sure Roy was thinking the same thing I was, which was that he couldn’t account for three prisoners that could have been axe murderers, for all we knew. Just then, there was a knock on the door, and one of the officers from outside poked his head through the crack.

What is it, Kaplan?

I saw you fly in, Chief, and I know you got your hands full, but…. Kaplan came in and slid a form across the desk. Roy looked up. When did this come in?

About ten minutes ago. I’ve got DiNardo on the way over there now.

Roy looked at the report again. Did you call the FBI office in Atlantic City?

I was about to do that now, Kaplan answered. I think we might want to call in some of the part-timers if they’re available. Sounds like we’re going to be pretty busy.

Roy nodded in agreement. And everyone else who’s off shift. We need to show a presence on the streets.

This was really getting serious, I thought. What is that? I asked, indicating the report.

Even though he’d asked for my help, Roy clearly didn’t know how far to go with me. We just got a call from Ben McDermott down at the bank.

I know Ben, I said, seeing Roy hesitate.

Seems that the bank vault is empty.

The words hit me like a freight train, and my brain went into overdrive. A thousand questions immediately stacked up inside my head, but I didn’t get to ask any of them. Roy bolted upright, and bellowed for Kaplan to come back in.

Call my wife, he ordered. Tell her I can’t take her to the doctor. Roy looked at me and said, You got any plans for today?

I didn’t, I said sincerely.

Well you do now. This is spinning out of control in a hurry. I want you to organize that press conference yesterday, and start working to get the right questions prepared. I’ll answer any and all of them, but I don’t want those reporter maggots firing them at me at a mile-a-minute. You got me?

I bristled at the maggot comment, but I knew where Roy was coming from.

I nodded, and Roy said, Good. After the press conference, you need to get back here right away so I can get something into the media that I know is the truth. Looking at Kaplan, Why are you still here? he snapped.

There’s something else, Kaplan replied, holding another piece of paper.

What is it now?

I don’t know if I should bother you with this yet, Chief. I mean, the phones are ringing off the hook and—

C’mon, Kaplan, what the hell?

David Robelle’s parents called.

David Robelle—as in the quarterback?

Kaplan nodded. They can’t find him.

Three prisoners couldn’t be accounted for, the bank vault had been cleaned out, and the captain of the high school football team was missing. I think I found my foothold.

Chapter 3… The Words

Who the hell are you?

I looked down and spat out in a tone that indicated my displeasure, My name is Johnny Pappas. And you are?

Irene O’Connor, WABC, New York.

It rang a bell as soon as she identified herself. I’d seen her on TV many times, talking into the camera with that long red hair and those full frosted lips of hers. She was one of my favorite news bunnies, which meant she had nice ta-tas.

What’s going on? she called up from the floor when I didn’t answer right away. I don’t have much time.

Who else can we talk to? another reporter called out.

Yeah, where’s Sheriff Mulroney?

Roy was right. It was going to be like maggots on bad meat, and I didn’t know if I was a maggot, or the meat. I held up my hands like I’d actually been through this before.

"Chief Mulroney, I said, glaring at the dink who’d called him Sheriff, will be here in about half an hour. In the meantime, I’ll try and answer any questions."

"Are you the same Johnny Pappas who writes for the Asbury Park Press?" someone hollered from the back.

Someone had actually heard of me. Yes, I am, I answered. A collective groan erupted, and my self-esteem deflated like a spent airbag.