November Brothers

By David Cook

Will Lockwood isn’t a bad man, but he is a bad man. After meeting attorney Karen Thompson and her uncle Jack, a retired District Attorney and World War II veteran, Will learns about Karen’s sister, Heather, and it becomes personal. Will is a Vietnam vet with his own secrets. He knows sometimes going outside the law is the only path to justice and finding the truth. And sometimes the truth is worse than you imagine. When Will’s actions put the very people he’s trying to help in danger, there is no way out. Or is there? A psychological crime thriller set in Michigan, California and Mexico, November Brothers takes you through Will Lockwood’s violent interpretation of justice and the law. Dealing with dirty cops, serial killers, missing persons, and more, Will leaves everyone in his wake with hard moral questions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Jan 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781684715879

David Cook

David Cook was a British author, screenwriter and actor. He is best known for the screen adaptation of his 1978 novel Walter, and was the first presenter of the UK TV programme Rainbow. He was born in Preston, Lancashire.

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COOK

Copyright © 2020 David Cook.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-1-6847-1586-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6847-1588-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6847-1587-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019920573

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 01/25/2020

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to thank Sheriff Joe Brewbaker for his many contributions, including Police procedures, the tour of the Department and Jail, and taking time to answer all of my questions. Your insight was invaluable.

I would also like to thank Renee Szymanski for helping me with the 911 calls. It was fun!

To the entire staff at the Presque Isle County Sheriff’s Department, thank you for accommodating me during my research.

CHAPTER

1

T he alley between the old two story buildings smelled of dirt, garbage, and excrement. It seemed appropriate, because that’s what the killer thought of the two men he was hunting. They were dirt, garbage, excrement. He had waited a long time for this, and he was ready.

Dressed from head to toe in black, he was a shadow in the shadows. He carried no identification, didn’t wear a watch, and all the tags were removed from his clothing. The long sleeved t-shirt, gloves, and watch cap left only his bearded face visible, but at two in the morning it wasn’t an issue.

There was little activity on the dirt road between him and his targets. Watching the bar across the street, he was patient. They were in there. They would be coming out soon. Then it would be time.

The black canvas bag at his feet was already open. It held everything he needed: a loud Hawaiian shirt, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, white socks, duct tape, handcuffs, rope, and a stun gun. A black matte five inch folding tactical knife with a half serrated blade was on his belt. It shouldn’t be needed until later.

He touched it for reassurance, as he did a quick recon of the alley behind him. About twenty feet wide, it was unlit, littered with garbage and abandoned junk. A dirty, rusted pickup was parked at the rear opening. There were old, rusty dumpsters at both front and back entrances, pushed against the decrepit building walls, convenient cover for surveillance.

The sound of muffled Tejano music was the only thing he heard, drifting over from the bar. Every time the door opened the music would spill out into the street, alerting him of movement. This bar was a neighborhood watering hole, as run-down as the surroundings. It was a small place for locals only, strangers viewed with suspicion. Another forty five minutes passed before the door opened again. He watched a man and a woman stagger out, leaning on each other for balance, then walk slowly away.

False alarm.

Easing back into the shadows, the killer stayed vigilant. He was rewarded a few minutes later, when music blared through the opening door, only to be abruptly returned to a muted volume as the door slammed shut, echoing across the street.

Two men loitered outside, one of them lighting a cigarette.

It was them.

Time to go to work.

Without taking his eyes from his prey, he pulled the watch cap and gloves off and tossed them into the bag as he bent over and grabbed the Hawaiian shirt. Putting it on quickly, he knelt down, reached back in, found the stun gun, and slid it inside his belt. He unclipped the knife, and slipped it into his sock. While still on one knee, he pulled the Jack Daniel’s bottle out, opened it, and took a couple of gulps, without swallowing. He did an 80 proof gargle for a few seconds, then let it dribble out of his mouth onto his shirt, hands, and pants. He poured half the bottle out, spilling some on his shoes, just in case. He wiped his hands dry on the shirt, and finally, pulled the zipper down on his fly.

Good to go.

The killer grabbed the Jack Daniel’s bottle, and slowly stood up. He walked around to the front of the dumpster and set the whiskey bottle on the lid, clinking it loud enough to draw their attention. It did. He put his hand on the edge of the lid, bent over a little, and lowered his head. His legs wobbled, and it looked like he was hanging on to the dumpster to keep himself steady.

The targets had watched the scene unfold after they heard the bottle. They looked at each other and almost laughed. A gift. This was going to be easy. Checking around for witnesses and finding none, they headed across the street.

The killer knew they would.

He wasn’t looking at them, but he saw them coming. Letting go of the dumpster, he straightened up, taking a quick step back to balance himself. He leaned forward again, reaching out for the bottle with his right hand. Missing it the first time, he bumped into the lid and staggered back. Going for it again, his fingers wrapped around the neck just as his victims arrived. He grabbed the zipper on his pants, then looked up and acted startled.

"Hey. … . amigos! he slurred, que pasa!"

This time the targets laughed.

"Have some Jack, amigos!"

He pushed the bottle towards them, at the same time stumbling back, letting go of the zipper and grabbing the edge of the dumpster with his free hand so he wouldn’t fall down. It was a good move, drawing them into the alley.

They both noticed that the bottle was less than half full. The smell of whiskey was all over this guy. Drunks were easy money. They looked at each other and nodded. The drunk didn’t see them.

Time to go to work.

"You a gringo, no?"

The drunk had seen them and was prepared.

"Gringo? Me? Yes! No, si! Si!"

He set the fifth back on top of the dumpster lid, looked down and said, Shit! I’m still open, as he reached down for his zipper, again. The stun gun was against his wrist. He was shuffling back and forth, but for every step he took forward, he subtly took two steps back, deeper into the shadows.

The targets were relaxed. They both thought this guy was an idiot. He doesn’t know he’s about to get robbed, and he’s doing most of the work for us. We didn’t even have to force him off the street, and he’s playing with his zipper, not paying attention.

"Drink up, compadres," the killer said, still looking down and struggling with his fly. When he looked up, one man stood directly in front of him, with the side of the dumpster at his back, and the other man stood on his right. They didn’t notice the black canvas bag on the ground just a few feet from them, in the darkness created by the dumpster.

Everyone was in position.

I think I’m going to be sick, the killer said, doubling over.

The man on his right grabbed his arm and straightened him back up. He didn’t notice the stun gun in the killer’s left hand. He was surprised by the rock hard, muscled arm he had a grip on. By the time the surprise registered, it was too late. The drunk had pressed the contacts against his neck, and held it there for a few seconds while 100,000 volts surged through his body. He dropped like a sack of flour.

The killer turned his attention to the man standing in front of him.

The second man had frozen just long enough, not understanding what had happened. The drunk was moving way too fast, he thought, and something was biting him under his chin. The man had a look of confusion on his face that turned to a grimace as he grunted and fell to the ground.

The killer grabbed both of them by their arms and dragged them behind the dumpster, out of sight. Pulling four sets of handcuffs out of the bag, their feet were secured first, then their hands cuffed in front of them. He began a methodical search of both men. Starting with the second man he disabled, he emptied everything out of his pockets, doing a quick inventory. There was a wallet, keys, a small role of bills, change, a knife, cigarettes, and some matches. Running his hands down the man’s legs to his feet, he found a small .22 caliber semi-automatic strapped to the inside of his ankle. Tossing it into the pile with the rest of the personal belongings, he turned his attention to the other man. The shirt and pants produced money, cigarettes, a lighter, wallet, keys, and badge case. He opened it. A Policia Agente gold shield was inside. A cop. Rolling him over, he found a holster inside the man’s pants, at the small of his back.

The killer pulled a .38 caliber revolver out, and looked very closely at it. It looked like the same gun. He had only seen it once before, but then he recognized a scratch on the wooden grip by the trigger, and he knew.

Checking the street for any movement, and finding none, he threw their possessions in the canvas bag, and pulled out the socks and duct tape. After stuffing the socks in their mouths and securing the gags with duct tape, the victims got another quick jolt from the stun gun, just to be sure.

He snatched the bottle of Jack Daniel’s off the dumpster lid and poured the rest out, then threw it in the bag. The bag went over his shoulder, then he reached out and grabbed the cuffs between their wrists, one in each hand, and started dragging them towards the back of the alley.

When he got to the pickup truck, he pulled back the canvas that covered the bed, and tossed the bag in. The back gate was already down. He grabbed each man by the collar and belt, and heaved them in. He pulled the rope out and tied them together, making sure they were bound tight. He took the .38 out of the bag and stuffed it into his pants, saw the stun gun, and decided to zap them one more time. He covered them with the canvas, and tied it off.

The killer hopped in the cab, started the truck, and drove towards the ocean.

While he was driving, he slid the revolver out of his pants and examined it again.

Unbelievable.

It was the same gun.

One year ago to the day was the last time he saw it. He was on his knees, the barrel four feet away, pointed directly at him. He remembered the muzzle flash, being hit in the chest with a sledgehammer, some laughter, and pain.

Then darkness.

CHAPTER

2

M ulti-colored leaves danced all over the road like they were going somewhere in a hurry. Trees lined the two lane highway, raining color down on everything. The air was clean and crisp. The smell of a city, long forgotten. A cloudless sky mixed with morning sun intensified the color of the moving canvas, constantly changing at the winds request. Any remnants of the real world had long since faded, leaving only wooded seclusion.

Meandering through the landscape, a late model pickup truck with only one occupant continued to head through Michigan’s Upper Peninsula east on Highway 2 towards the Mackinac Bridge. It would be another hour and a half driving, but the weather was making it easy.

Below the bridge, a lakeside log cabin rented two months before awaited with the keys hidden inside a store bought rock by the front porch.

William Lockwood. That was the name on his passport, at least the name on the one he was carrying now. He had several. They were residue from another life.

As far back as he could remember everyone called him Will. His mother was the only one who called him William.

He was 6 feet 2 inches tall, 210 pounds. His sandy brown hair was losing the battle with gray. The gray hairs around his chin were losing the battle with white. His beard was still growing out, looking more like he lost his razor a couple of weeks ago.

Will was a hard man underneath the clothes that he wore, even for 52 years old. He had never stopped working out, although it got harder as he got older, and he liked to run. Jogging maintained his weight over the years and kept him healthy. Clear blue eyes lined with crows-feet had an intensity behind them that took in everything. His face was rugged, but not weathered. It wasn’t a hard face, but hard enough to make anyone think twice about provoking him. When he smiled he looked like he knew things other people didn’t. He had no scars showing.

The greyish beard and ‘in need of a haircut for three months’ look he had about him fit his surroundings. Typical to the area was the flannel shirt he wore tucked into jeans, covered by a plain black leather jacket. He wasn’t in any hurry, and he liked the peaceful drive by himself.

In a few weeks the date that haunted him will be a memory for another year.

November 11.

The most defining moments in his life happened on this date. November 11 was also his birthday, but it was filled with harsh recollections, so the further away from civilization and human contact, the better. No matter where he was, those November memories that were burned into his life would wash over him like a flood, drowning him in his past. This particular birthday held an anniversary for Will. One that he didn’t want to face.

Over fifty years old. It was hard to believe. Finally at an age where what he was started to make sense. With time came understanding, tolerance, but not acceptance. Life had thrown him a few curves, to say the least. He had done everything that was expected of him, and everything had been taken from him so often that the only way for him to handle the pain was to try and escape. Over and over he was told that running wasn’t the solution to anything, but it’s much easier said than done.

Everyone has secrets in their lives that would make them more interesting, but most want to keep them hidden, because interesting is not how life is lived. Boredom is an inescapable reality of life, and those who know how to accept this wind up relatively happy.

Will was not one of those people.

Like many veterans of war, he knew what he was capable of. War brings out the worst in men, and the best. There is a thin line between the two. In the end, a man has to live with both.

Even decades later.

Heroes and medals aren’t always what they seem. The more you kill and the more sadistic a soldier is in battle could mean a hero status in the real world. Murder with a uniform on can make it acceptable, but inside a man knows.

And he never forgets.

He had killed for country and he had killed for revenge. Murder was murder no matter how you looked at it. There wasn’t any difference in his mind. If there was a hell, he knew he was going there, and accepted it. A chest full of medals made it look patriotic, but death was the cost. This was a struggle many Marines lived with, long after the battlefield.

He hadn’t killed in awhile, but that was an admission that would never be made. There was no uniform the last time he took lives, only satisfaction. The act itself had been ugly, but the closure it gave him was worth the price. Killing was the one thing he was good at. Hard to find a place in the real world for someone like him, and he knew it. His past should stay buried, not only for his sake, but for those around him.

Old soldiers do die, and most are buried with their secrets. Governments and men do not learn from the past, otherwise the world wouldn’t be in a constant state of conflict, and history wouldn’t keep repeating itself.

Looking through the windshield at the peaceful countryside was in sharp contrast to the turmoil that raged within him. The radio was tuned to 98.9, WKLT, the Rock Station, and was playing classic rock music that reminded him of a simpler time, when he was promised a life that didn’t exist. The general rule is that the music you were listening to the first time you got laid is the music you listen to for the rest of your life. Will was no exception.

Small town America still held some of those promises, but they were fading quickly with technological advances. Anyone can wake up in the morning and communicate to another country. The world is a much smaller place these days with instant news, instant messaging, instant everything. In a lot of ways this is advantageous, but we are losing personal contact, he thought. Personal contact. November was not the month for personal contact.

Not for Will.

If there was a way to shut off his thoughts, he would pay anything for it. Always a thinker, he had never found the internal switch that could turn off his mind. Jack Daniel’s had helped on many occasions, but it only slowed the storm. His memory was exceptional, a curse and a blessing at the same time.

Even as a child, he absorbed rather than learned. Now he absorbed the scenery passing by at fifty miles an hour. Beauty can be found in almost anything, he thought, if one looked close enough. The old, rusted farm implements that littered the landscape held that certain rustic charm. What were they? What possible use could the strange configurations of reddish brown metal have? Mindless questions to pass the time.

Live in the moment.

It was better than living in the past.

Almost there. Groceries and liquor were the only necessities required for the next few weeks. Human contact was optional. A lot of time to be spent in the woods with a camera. There would be a few nights in local bars, just to hear voices other than his own.

Will looked forward to a few weeks of peace and quiet.

CHAPTER

3

M ackinaw City, Michigan was the right size to accommodate his needs for the next few weeks. Below the Mackinac Bridge in northern Michigan, it’s rural and small enough to be comfortable for him. A tourist town with the usual amenities, remote enough to stay anonymous. Will would be staying out of town, on a lake surrounded by woods.

The Mackinac Bridge is as impressive as the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco, without the publicity or recognition. Its five mile span between Mackinac City and St. Ignace connects lower Michigan and the Upper Peninsula, or U. P., as locals call it.

Lake Michigan is on the west side of the bridge, with Lake Huron on the east. The Straits of Mackinac are picturesque, with bays and islands filling the views. Beaver Island, surrounded by several smaller islands, rose from Lake Michigan, while Bois Blanc Island and Mackinac Island were in Lake Huron. They were about forty five miles apart, in different Great Lakes. Mackinac Island was a little more than five miles from the bridge and coastline. No cars are allowed on the island, making it a popular tourist destination. Ferry boats run daily, sometimes hourly to shuttle people back and forth.

Mackinaw City is the northern most city in the lower peninsula in Michigan, population less than a thousand. Summer tourist season brings an influx of people and money to the area, fueling an economy that depends a great deal on tourism and seasonal income. Over one million visitors come to the area every year to enjoy the water sports, woods, scenic views and summer events. With over one hundred retail shops and a bustling downtown, tourists can find many historical and fun things to do. Restaurants, marinas, campgrounds, and hotels are plentiful. When summer business slows down, hunters pour in for deer season in November. The countryside is filled with four legged trophies.

Maritime legends of shipwrecks dating as far back as one can imagine are cemented in local lore.

With winter soon approaching, it will be an isolated wonderland covered in white. The Straits are menacing in the winter, with lighthouses wearing ice coverings that are dangerous and beautiful at the same time.

The history of northern Michigan is rich with different cultures. Native Americans, French, and English settlers have all had a hand in shaping the area.

Will had his own history in Mackinac County.

Outside of town in the woods was where Will had first killed. His father had taken him hunting, a tradition in Michigan. It wasn’t anything like he expected. With a squeeze of his index finger, a single shot had changed his life.

The deer didn’t die immediately, and the memory of its bleating still rang in his ears. He had to shoot it again, looking into its eyes as he pulled the trigger for the second time. It left him with mixed emotions to this day. Not the death of the animal, but the finality. His old man was egging him on, telling him not to let it suffer. All he could think of back then was the deer wouldn’t have suffered at all if he hadn’t shot it. When he saw life leave the buck, he knew that some of him died with it.

Fourteen years old. Too early to start killing. Confusion. Tears. Passage into manhood. A father proud. On one hand he wanted to please the man who raised him. On the other, he thought it was wrong.

Fast forward to nineteen years old. Too late to stop killing. Five short years later, in a country he had never heard of, he found killing another human more challenging. Mind against mind, man against man. Equal playing field. He was good at it.

The deer was another time.

A deer isn’t a real adversary. Foreign soil taught him that. Many sportsmen never tasted war. He respected bow hunters because of the proximity you had to be to the prey. Stalking with a bow was sport, if man accepted killing as a sport. Many hunters came to get drunk and just kill something. Mounting a trophy on the wall is a macho symbol to these forty hour a week players. Stories from these arrogant ‘sportsman’ became exaggerated as the years went by. Once in a while he thought about stalking them, showing them the true meaning of hunting.

Celebrations of victory with alcohol give them an escape from their boring lives. Kill a man face to face and celebration is not on the menu. Reflection is closer to reality. You were better on this day than he was, and you took everything from him today.

Celebration? Tomorrow might be your day.

After paying the toll, Will drove south across the Mackinac Bridge, its two beige towers rising over 550 feet. The green main cables draping from the towers have over 42,000 miles of wire inside. Also known as the ‘Mighty Mac’, it is part of Interstate 75 which stretches all the way to Florida. Every Labor Day, two lanes are closed to traffic so people can walk the span.

Once Will was in lower Michigan he stayed on Interstate 75 for a few miles, then got off on U.S.31 for the short trip to Paradise Lake.

When he decided to go to northern Michigan for his sister’s anniversary, Will picked the location at random, because of the name.

Paradise.

CHAPTER

4

W ill turned onto Paradise Trail and checked house numbers until he found the place he rented. A split log fence lined the front on both sides of the driveway, giving an old feel to the yard. A rustic log cabin, painted a dark brown, with a stone fireplace chimney on the side sat back about fifty feet from the road. A covered front porch made from logs with a wooden deck and a couple of steps stretched the length of the house. Moss was growing in patches on the roof. There was a stone lined pathway from the front steps to the driveway, with shrubs and bushes trying to hang on to summer. Fallen leaves littered the property. He pulled into the gravel driveway and drove down to the end, where he parked and got out of the car. The cabin set up a little, and the view of the lake was nice. The water was only about thirty yards from the house, with a small sand beach. A burning pit, filled with ash, sat in the middle of the backyard. Log stumps used for seating circled the pit, which had a stone border. The landscape had been left natural, giving a real feel of the woods. Pine trees, blue spruce, and evergreens, oak and maple trees with stray leaves left clinging to branches dotted the yard.

The lake looked cold, but peaceful. Almost smooth as glass, the landscape reflected off the mirror finish, with most of the water a looking glass picking up colors of the sky.

Will wandered to the front of the cabin and started to search for the one particular stone that held the key. Four rocks back from the steps on the left, he found it. If any more leaves had covered the path and stones, he might have been there awhile.

He let himself in and was surprised to find the cabin warm. The drapes were all open, and light filled the small space. The front room had a couch covered with an afghan, two end tables and a coffee table that looked like they came from a Salvation Army store. A television and VHS player sat opposite on a stand that had a few tapes underneath.

The kitchen had wood cabinets and a window over the metal sink. A small beige refrigerator with a rounded top stood on one side of the sink, and an apartment size propane stove was on the other. An ancient microwave sat on the counter. The kitchen table was from the fifties, with a metal ringed Formica top and plastic covered red chairs.

There was no bedroom, but a real log headboard and footboard, attached to a metal frame was pushed into the corner near the back of the cabin. A nice quilt spread in earth tones covered the mattress. A rustic log night stand with a small LED alarm clock sat next to bed. A scarred wood dresser with six drawers stood next to the bathroom.

The bathroom was nice. It looked like it had just been re-done recently, with a new shower, sink and toilet. The linoleum floor was clean, and towels, washcloth’s and hand towels filled the open cupboard.

A few cheap wildlife prints hung on the walls.

The stone fireplace and hearth had wood stacked on the grate behind the screen, a welcome from the owner. It was a homey addition to the cabin.

Will liked it.

He went back out to the pickup and gathered his so-called luggage, which would fit the decor perfectly. After unpacking and putting everything away, Will checked the fridge and cupboards. The cupboards had dishes and glasses, and he found the silverware in a drawer next to the stove. Pots and pans were in the base cabinet, next to the stove. Below the sink, a small plastic lined plastic garbage receptacle and cleaning supplies filled the space. The refrigerator was empty, but cold. Ice trays in the freezer were ready to go.

There was a small radio on top of the ice box, so Will turned it on and played with the dial until he found some music. It was a long way between stations, reminding him of his rural surroundings.

Just the way he wanted it.

He decided a trip to town was in order so that he could become familiar with the area. He had to find a grocery store, liquor store, and gas station, having the feeling that they might be all in one. To his surprise, there were plenty of choices, this being a tourist town. After driving around for a while to acclimate himself, Will loaded up on supplies and headed back to the lake.

Once back at the cabin, Will walked around the property, picking up fallen branches and tossing them into the fire pit. It was good to be outside, the cool weather a big change from his home in Laguna Beach. The weather didn’t change much in southern California. It was either hot, or real hot. The brisk air in Michigan gave him a sense of distance from home. He could smell leaves burning somewhere, something that he hadn’t experienced since he was a kid.

Will walked down to the water and stuck his hand in. The lake was cold at this time of year, so he wouldn’t be doing any swimming. That was okay. The sounds and smells of the woods, and just watching the birds and assorted wildlife oblivious to his presence gave him a calm he had been missing for a while.

As winter approached, the days got shorter, with the sun setting earlier. The change of seasons in Michigan was dramatic. The fall brought a surge of color, only to be replaced by a grey entrance into winter. The white landscape of the winter months brought a desolation to what was once a lush green explosion of life. Spring paved the way for the returning vitality of summer, which held on as long as it could.

It gave one a sense of time passing, something Will missed in southern California.

He walked back to the cabin, ready to fall into his own ritual. Lately, he had been thinking too much, mostly about the past. Will knew it wasn’t healthy to dwell on things he couldn’t change, but he couldn’t shake his failings, especially since forgiveness was not something he extended to himself.

He lit the ready-made fire, replaced the screen and sat back on the couch with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a glass full of ice.

He thought about his sister, Leigh Ann.

She would have liked this place.

CHAPTER

5

7:38 A.M.

W ill was staring at the ceiling, not looking at anything in particular. He had been restless for several hours and was tired, but also wide awake. Drinking heavily until he would pass out guaranteed him a few hours of peace, the demons unable to break through the alcohol fueled haze. The whiskey always jolted him awake after a couple of hours.

Thoughts of what to do with the new day started to filter through. A long run around the lake was just what the doctor ordered to clear his head and rejuvenate his body. When he got back from picking up food and supplies yesterday, Will drove around the lake and found it was about five miles. That should be a good enough run to jar the cobwebs loose. Long distance running to a seasoned jogger was more of an internal challenge than a physical one. He was finding that the older he got the more his body was letting him down. He had to work twice as hard just to stay half as good. Along with age comes deterioration and no matter how much exercise he did to slow the effects, after over fifty years nothing was going to stop it. This was the hardest to accept because it is always irreversible.

Dragging himself out of bed, the bathroom and a long, hot shower were the first order of business for the day. The hot water always helped, because some parts of his body took longer to wake up than others. After the shower the coffeemaker was filled with four scoops of coffee grounds and enough water for two cups. A couple of cups of coffee while looking out over the lake helped clear the fog from his mind. Push-ups and sit-ups would finish the morning routine. Once he stretched and bent to loosen up, it was time to get dressed and go running around the lake. Depending on how he felt after a mile or two would determine the distance he would go.

It was a little past 9:00 A.M.

Will walked out the front door into the cool air. The sun was peeking through the trees, throwing its rays down to the ground in ever changing spots. The air smelled good and clean, the temperature perfect for running. As he got to the end of the driveway he turned right on the road and started. A little slow at first, but he would pick up the pace. Right now he was just taking in his surroundings.

He figured if he ran around the entire lake back to his home, it would be enough. In about forty to forty-five minutes he should be right about at the same spot. It would give him a chance to check out the houses on both sides of the road and any hidden businesses. He remembered seeing a cafe on the lake called Goldies. Maybe he’ll stop.

A mile or so down the road Will started to pick up speed. He pushed himself until he got into his regular routine. As he settled into his normal pace he started thinking. Will didn’t think about running, or his breathing, once he got to automatic. He thought about everything but the physical strain that he was going through. It had been a long time since he had been in northern Michigan. He had forgotten how beautiful the colors could be. The combination of greens, reds, oranges, and yellows glowed in the sunlight. The relative peacefulness of being out in the country brought a calm to him. He was a long way from Los Angeles in every way.

Goldies Cafe came up pretty quick. It actually looked more like a saloon at first, rather than a cafe or restaurant. It was a light brown in color and had tall columns that ran to the roof on both sides. It ran through Will’s mind that this business didn’t originally start out as a restaurant. It had two white antique lamp posts outside, with five globes on top of each one, framing the building. Will jogged past, figuring he would stop next time. He was just getting started.

As he continued, he noticed another jogger in the distance