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Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three

Chapter One

It was one day short of a full moon, and the early summer sky was cloudless. The crickets and frogs were out in full force, the humidity thick, almost dripping from the trees. The occasional scream of an animal in its death throes sounded like the banshee of Irish folklore: the sound of death.

A sputtering streak of fire, faint at first, then becoming bright and dangerous as it passed across the sky, cut a nearly straight line parallel to the horizon. Then it arced downward, towards the trees. There was a soft whump as the object touched the ground and skidded a good distance across a clearing before it came to rest barely fifty feet from the towering fir trees at the end of its path. There was no one to hear the agonizing moans of the beings inside.

At least, not at first...

Chapter Two

Joe Landzlodt knew his sister was crabby today. His brother-in-law, Cyrus Roberts, tipped him off. But then, Cy had been crabby all day, too. When Joe's sister was crabby, it was a sure bet that Cy was equally upset.

Joe pulled his Ford Explorer into his sister's driveway and reluctantly got out. He knew what was coming. Damn! He tried not to slam the truck's door in anger, but failed.

Joe's heart lurched in his chest as he walked into the kitchen. Carol was leaning against the edge of the kitchen sink, her eyes alarmingly and deeply sad. Even the bright sun streaming through the window couldn't erase the grief so clear in her eyes. Joe felt sick for her; she was not doing well. "Sis...?" He reached for her.

She sank into Joe's arms and wept.

He rocked back on his heels, trying to absorb her pain; to take it from her. "I know he's having problems today, Carol. You have to try to be patient. I know it's hard, but he can't help it. You know he can't help it." Joe held his sister against his chest, trying to offer what comfort he could. He knew it wasn't much.

Her voice trembled with tears. "He's really bad today, Joe. He was bad yesterday, and the day before, and..." She broke down and wept again, sobbing into his shirt.

He looked down at her hair. He wanted to save her from the neighborhood bully, just as he used to do when they were kids. "Where is he?" he asked softly.

"Check his bedroom," she nearly spat.

"What's he doing? Drawing?"

"How should I know?" She had spit the words out with an unsettling ferocity. "I don't care anymore..."

"You can't mean that."

She looked up at him, hard anger in her eyes. "Didn't you hear me?! I don't care. I don't give one damn. Not one Goddamn. How much is a mother expected to endure, Joe?"

"Carol, you knew he had problems before you got him. Your eyes were open to it. You can't shut him out now." He hated saying that but she had to hear it. Even though she knew it, she had to hear it again.

Releasing her from his supportive embrace, Joe turned and started up the stairs.

"Where's Cy?" Carol asked, accusingly. "He couldn't stand to come home, could he? His shrew of a wife is too much for him. I'm a failure, Joe. Cy can't look at me because I've failed Timmy. Cy doesn't love me anymore."

"Carol, he's still at the office," Joe said with mustered patience. "You know we're bidding on that big job tomorrow. He's just trying to get our ducks in a row. He said to tell you he'd be home soon." He turned back up the stairs.

Carol sat down wearily on a kitchen chair. "I can't take it anymore, Joe. Timmy is going to wear me down to nothing." Carol choked on a sob. "I wish I were dead."

"You don't mean that, Carol. You can't mean that."

She laid her head in her arms, her voice muffled as she whimpered pitifully, like a wounded animal.

"Carol...?"

Her whimpering was as loud as a nuclear blast.

"Carol, I'm going to take Timmy home with me for the night." God, he was giving in again... "Okay?" He looked at her, grieving for her.

She didn't respond.

"Okay?" he asked again, tentatively.

Trembling, she said, "You don't have to do this, Joe."

"I want to, Carol. You and Cy need some time to yourselves. Go see a movie tonight. Eat out, go dancing. Do something--anything. Just get out of the house. Sleep in late tomorrow. Saturdays are meant for sleeping."

He turned, ready to start back up the stairs once again.

"You don't have to do this, Joe... but if you wouldn't, I swear I'd cut my throat. I'd do it. I'd do it, Joe. I'd cut my throat and end it all."

"I know," Joe said, compassion in his voice. At this point he wasn't sure she didn't mean it.

When Joe reached Timmy's bedroom, he tapped on the door with the back of his knuckles. "Timmy?" he gently called through the door.

There was no answer. He didn't expect there to be.

Joe slowly eased the door open. His nephew was lying on the floor, knotted up in a fetal position. The boy stared vacantly into space. "Timmy?" Joe said again. Joe leaned down next to the boy. Joe's beloved nephew looked pale and vulnerable, his blond hair tousled and his clothes rumpled. It was clear to Joe that Timmy had been laying there a very long time. Joe suspected he had lain there most of the day.

"Hey, buddy, it's your uncle Joe. It's good old Uncle Joe." Timmy still didn't respond, as Joe knew he would not. He couldn't. Sometimes he wasn't even sure Timmy felt love towards him. The doctors had said the level of Timmy's autism precluded him from loving, or even showing emotion toward anyone: not to his parents; not to his closest relatives. Not to any other human being. Maybe he couldn't, but Joe would continue to show love for him, just as his parents did. Because if there was even the slightest chance, the tiniest glimmer of possibility that Timmy would sense their love, all their outpouring of love would have been worth it.

Joe sighed deeply. He loved Timmy, but he had hoped he could spend the night at home, alone, with his own thoughts and his own grief. He needed to grieve. "How about going home with me tonight, buddy?" Joe said gently. "We can watch a video. Maybe pop some corn.?Would you like that? Sassy hasn't seen you in a while. I'm sure she misses you."

* * *

Getting Timmy to come with Joe was relatively easy. Joe just picked Timmy up off the floor and carried him down the stairs. Timmy was eight. He was light. Through Timmy's growing up Joe had accumulated Timmy's essentials and had them ready and waiting in Joe's house. He had even made a bedroom away from home for Timmy. It wasn't at all unusual for Joe to take Timmy home with him. Timmy was a special boy with special needs, and it took all three of them--Carol, Cy, and often Joe--to handle him. During the last six weeks, especially, Timmy had been a handful.

Although Joe didn't think twice about helping Carol out this night, he would have rather just gone home and crashed. Joe was worried. Something was going on with him, and he had no idea what. He wasn't himself, and he was acutely aware of that fact. So was everyone else who was close to him. And although his sister would maintain that Timmy was oblivious to Joe's uneasiness, Joe suspected that Timmy was more keenly aware of it than anyone. He just couldn't show it.

Now Timmy had a DVD movie in his hand. With a deft quickness he slipped the disk into the tray and was settled on Joe's couch before the tray was even sucked all the way into the player. Sassy jumped up on Timmy's lap and purred loudly as the movie's credits came up.

Timmy was quick. Intuitive and focused. His social skills were nil, but his brain never slept.

Joe sat on the other end of the couch and stared vacantly at the big plasma screen TV. The super hero, villains, and devastating explosions registered on his retina, but they didn't pierce his consciousness. What was wrong with him? He never got headaches. Not like the kind he was getting now, anyway. Up until a few weeks ago he was a healthy young male who had been well trained in the military. He had done his "time", as he liked to call it, and his training in Special Forces had given him self-confidence and rock-hard muscles. But these headaches that had recently come into his life were killing him. They came from nowhere, struck like a viper, then disappeared as quickly as they had come. Maybe Carol was right. Maybe it was time he see a doctor.

He shouldn't have allowed himself to think about it. Another headache erupted as he sat there. Joe winced at the sudden surge of almost exquisite pain that shot across his brain. He clapped his palms to the sides of his head in an effort to quell the pain. How long was this going to continue?

The doorbell rang. Joe's headache vanished as quickly as it had come. He stood, legs wobbly, and went to the door. His fears were realized when he opened it.

"Hello, Joe." A pretty blond woman, Joe's age, stood at the bottom of his front steps. "I've come to comfort you," she said, simply.

Joe pinched his eyes shut, trying to erase Julie Campbell from his vision and from his mind. He had suspected she wanted back into his life. She had been stalking him for the last several weeks. He was not at all surprised she was standing there. "Julie, I..." Joe stammered.

"Joe, we have to talk," Julie said breathlessly.

Joe prepared himself for the verbal onslaught that Julie was undoubtedly ramping up for. He knew her so well.

"I'm not going to let one more day go by without us talking this through," Julie said. Her tone was insistent, demanding. "I can take away your pain, Joe. I know you loved Helen, but you love me, too. You loved me in high school. You still love me. I know you do. Let me love you again, Joe. Please. Let me love you again."

"Julie, we're not right for each other. In your heart you know we're not. And even if I felt something for you, it's too soon. Helen's only been gone six weeks." He heard himself begging, pleading for her to just...shut...up...

"Joe, you don't want to face the fact that you love me. You love me madly! Totally! Overwhelmingly!"

Julie was the queen of all drama queens. Joe had to give her that much. She could wring blood from the very air around her. "Julie, Timmy is staying with me tonight and..." He looked back at the open door.

She slapped him! Hard! So hard he felt his teeth cut into the inside of his cheek. "Timmy!" she raged. "You spend all your time with him! You used that same excuse when we were in high school! He's your excuse for not loving me! You hide behind him, Joe!"

Joe felt someone step next to him. It was a very soft step. It was Timmy. No expression. No emotion. He just stood there like a young tree wanting badly to protect its uncle with its too-young branches.

"Timmy!" Julie wailed pensively. "I'm so sorry, honey. Oh, God, I'm so sorry."

Timmy turned and walked back into the house.

Joe tenderly touched his jaw and opened his mouth, tentatively exploring how much damage Julie had just inflicted on him.

"Joe... I'm so terribly sorry." Julie reached out to touch Joe's jaw, but he caught her hand and held it fast.

"It's over, Julie. It's done. It was over years ago. Go find yourself a boyfriend. You deserve it."

"But I want you, Joe."

"You can't have me," he said softly. He turned, walked into his house and shut the door behind him.

* * *

Joe's jaw hurt like thunder. He stood in front of the bathroom mirror, trying to see into his mouth. He had spat blood a couple of times during the past 20 minutes, and the bleeding had finally stopped. The sound from the movie Timmy was still watching reverberated through the wall.

Joe sighed. Loudly. His life was turning inside out. As if the excruciating headaches weren't enough for one man to bear, now his old high school girlfriend had acted like a raving lunatic in front of Timmy. Joe was angry. No, he decided he was beyond angry.

He stooped down and picked up Sassy by the scruff of her neck. An orange tabby, good natured to a fault, she purred loudly. It occurred to Joe that not every being on the planet was suffering. Sassy never suffered; she just purred.

When Joe went back into the living room, he found Timmy curled up on the couch, sound asleep. Joe shut down the DVD player, switched off the TV, then picked up Timmy and carried him to his bedroom. He cuddled him and whispered, "It will be all right", in his ear before he lay him down on the bed and took off his shoes and socks. He pulled the covers back on one side and slipped Timmy under them. It would be all right for Timmy to sleep in his clothes, Joe decided. It wouldn't be the first time he had put him to bed in such a state.

Joe switched on the Winnie the Pooh nightlight. He looked at it, and he studied it, surprised he hadn't seen it for what it was. Timmy was eight. Winnie the Pooh didn't fit Timmy anymore. The next time Joe was out and about he would make sure to buy him a nightlight that more closely fitted his age. Maybe Timmy would like a super hero. Joe looked at the sleeping boy in Winnie the Pooh's light. How could this beautiful boy cause them so much grief?

It had been a long day, and Joe looked forward to laying himself down in his own bed. He hoped he'd fall asleep quickly.

He did. Joe fell asleep almost before he hit the pillow. But somewhere in the middle of the night he began to dream. He was running. His breath was coming to him in fitful bursts and gasps. Fear pierced him like a poisoned lance. And then the headache hit. He felt as if his head was bursting like a rotting melon.

"Uncle Joe! Uncle Joe! Uncle Joe! Uncle Joe! Uncle Joe!" Timmy's staccato scream brought Joe to full consciousness.

"What's wrong, Timmy?!" Timmy's screams nearly rendered Joe incapable of acting. He sat up and switched on his bed lamp.

"Draw, draw, draw, draw, draw, DRAWWWW!" Timmy screamed.

"Okay, buddy," Joe soothed. "Okay, calm down, okay, buddy. You know where your drawing stuff is. Go get it."

Timmy set off at a run, his little, eight-year-old bare feet slapping across the bedroom's hardwood floor, back to his own bedroom. Joe lay back on his bed, his head pounding furiously, now. Timmy ran back into Joe's bedroom, paper and pencil in his long fingers. He hunched down onto the floor, laid out a sheet of paper and began to draw at a furious rate. Joe's headache pain was so bad he could barely see, but as he watched Timmy's capable hand lay out image after image across the paper, his headache began to dissipate. "What are you drawing, buddy?" Joe didn't expect an answer, nor did he get one. Timmy was into his own head, and the world in his head was rapidly spilling out onto the paper.

When Joe tried to see what Timmy was drawing, Timmy hunched further over the paper, hiding a good portion of it with his body. "I can't see what you're drawing, Timmy. Let me see what you drew." Joe didn't know why this particular drawing of the hundreds of drawings Timmy had done was so important, but he wanted it: he wanted this drawing. He reached out to take it from Timmy.

"Noooooooo! No!" Timmy clutched the drawing to his chest, wrinkling it in his fist.

"I just want to look at--"

"Nooooo!"

"Okay, Timmy, okay," Joe said, trying to comfort him. "I won't look at your drawing."

Timmy laid the paper back down on the floor and carefully smoothed out the wrinkles with the back of his hand. "Oh!" Timmy yelped. He dropped his pencil and moaned.

"Oh, God!" Joe felt like his head was exploding. He fell onto his knees and gagged with the pain of it. Timmy, as if mirroring him, rocked on his own knees and began drawing anew, at an even more furious pace, bearing down with his pencil until the heavy drawing paper began to tear under the tip of the pencil's onslaught.

"Uncle Joe! Uncle Joe!" Timmy held up his half-torn drawing.

Joe's head was swimming, the fluttering paper dancing like a wraith in front of him. Timmy quickly snatched another piece of paper from the stack. He looked at his original drawing as he quickly copied from it onto the second sheet of paper. Joe was still on his knees, gasping, when Timmy shoved the new drawing under his face. Bold block letters spelled out what appeared to Joe to be someone's name. He read out loud, "B... Ben-ja-min Hun-ting-ton." He squinted with the pain in his head. "That's very nice, Timmy." He wanted to lie down on the floor and will the headache to go away. He didn't have time for Timmy's nonsense.

But then something made Joe look more closely at his nephew's face, as he tried to find a shred of a clue to what might be motivating his nephew in this latest round of nonsense. Did he see a self-awareness...? No, it was more than that. It was a sternness that had transformed Timmy's juvenile, autistic face into that of a wise adult. He had never seen Timmy look like this. Timmy was looking at him and into him. Suddenly Joe's headache was gone! It disappeared as quickly as a snake crawling into its hole.

"READ!" Timmy screamed.

"Okay," Joe said. "Okay...okay, don't get excited." He squinted again at the letters. "Ben-ja-min Hun-ting-ton," he read again. He looked questioningly at his nephew. "You wrote 'Benjamin Huntington'. What does it mean, Timmy?"

The look of awareness on Timmy's face disappeared.

"Timmy?" Joe looked into his eyes, trying to find something there. But there was nothing. Timmy was once again back in his own world.

* * *

Joe picked Timmy up and put him in bed with him. Timmy was so exhausted he went right back to sleep. But Joe fought sleep until just before dawn.

Timmy had had wild bouts of drawing many times before. Joe kept art supplies on hand for just such events. But tonight was different. Joe had never seen Timmy like this. Timmy was an unusually outstanding artist. Joe hated the description, "idiot savant", which some experts had referred to him as, but except for the "idiot" part, Joe thought it fit. Timmy drew with a maturity far beyond his years. He laid out pictures like a Rembrandt, each drawing intricate, detailed and beautiful. It was as if his autism enabled him to focus all his artistic energy into each picture he drew. Timmy drew his pictures from memory: his visual recall was perfect, and buildings, people and scenery popped from the tip of his pencil like magic. No, Joe thought, Timmy is no idiot savant. He's a genius.

At the breakfast table Timmy sat, quiet now, drawing a picture of Sassy. Sassy was a frequent model for Timmy, although Timmy never looked at her when he drew her. His perfect visual memory was the mental engine that enabled him to put down perfect images. Still, Sassy didn't know that. The black and tan cat would sit quietly--almost dutifully--as Timmy quickly put her image to paper. Joe said, "Let me see what you've got, Tim."

Timmy looked at Joe and quickly handed him the half-finished drawing.

"This is nice, Tim. It's the best picture you've done of Sassy yet." He smiled encouragingly and handed the drawing back to Timmy, and the boy resumed drawing precisely where he'd left off: almost like a video that was paused and then restarted.

"Tim, where did you get that name you wrote down for me last night?" Joe cautiously ventured.

Timmy continued to draw, seemingly oblivious to Joe's question.

"Tim, you have to help me out here," he said, frustration creeping into his voice. "I don't know a Benjamin Huntington. Did you just make up that name, or...?"

Suddenly, Timmy slammed his pencil down on the table so hard, Joe jumped. "Benjamin Huntington," Timmy said sharply.

Joe reached for Timmy. He wanted to hold him, to hug him, to bring him into the normal world of little kids and big adults.

"No!" Timmy shouted. "Benjamin Huntington!"

Joe ran his hands through his dark hair in sheer frustration. "Oh my God," he mumbled. Timmy was always on the edge of nonsense, struggling to break free of the prison he was caught in. At times he was downright outrageous--like now. Joe didn't know how to respond to his nephew. So he just sat there, gaping at him.

Finally, Joe got up, slid back the screen-door, walked out to his sunny back deck and sat down heavily on a lawn chair. He was confused. His head was swimming and a touch of those terrible headaches was threatening to spill through him again. He realized he hadn't been the same since his fiancée, Helen Meyer, had died six weeks previous. Of course he hadn't. How could he be? In his own way he loved her. Not as much as he could have, but he'd brought to her what he felt. And just like that she was gone. His headaches were making his life hell. Timmy's latest antics were scaring him. No wonder he had fierce headaches now. It was an emotional reaction to Helen's death. No wonder Carol and Cy were losing their minds over Timmy. Timmy was pulling the same jabbering nonsense at home just like he was with Joe. Timmy was an astute young man. Maybe he sensed Joe's grief over Helen's death and the extra-outrageous behavior he'd been exhibiting the last six weeks was his reaction to Joe's grief. Maybe this was the only way he could express his sorrow to Joe. Maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe...

Joe looked back into the kitchen. Timmy was still sitting at the table, still quietly drawing. The streaming, somewhat diffused sunbeam pouring through the screen-door made Timmy's hair glow, angel-like.

Sassy brushed up against Joe's pant leg. He leaned down and picked up his little friend. "Where is this heading, Sas?" Sassy purred and gave him the kind of trusting look only cats can give. "I was hoping you could give me some advice, Sas." He again looked through the screen-door at Timmy, then back at Sassy. "Tell me, Sas," he whispered, "am I going crazy?"

* * *

Joe had decided not to tell Carol and Cy about Timmy's strange flashes of "normalcy" he had displayed the night before. The possibility of it meaning anything would only hold out false hope for them. They were already exhausted with the years of caring for Timmy. This would most certainly only add to their misery.

"Thanks, sis." Joe took the bowl of mashed potatoes she'd passed him and spooned a helping onto his plate. He laid down his fork on the plastic tablecloth and sighed a bit too loudly.

"You're tired, Joe," Carol said with worry in her voice.

Joe bit down on his lower lip. He could not let them know how sad he was.

"Joe...?" Cy said, anxiousness in his voice.

Joe laid down his napkin, resigned to his sadness. "I've got to get out of here for awhile, Cy."

"That was exactly what I was going to insist you do," Cy said in a brotherly way. "Carol and I are worried about you, Joe."

Joe choked back tears. "I'm worried about me, too."

Carol reached across the table and tenderly touched her brother's cheek. "I love you so much, Joe. Helen's death will destroy you if you won't allow yourself to grieve for her."

"It's only been six weeks," Joe said.

"Joe, Carol is right. You need to get away for a while. Away from the business. Away from town. Away from us, even."

"I don't want to leave you in the lurch, Cy. What kind of partner would leave the other with all the work?"

"You won't be leaving me with all the work, Joe. Our staff members can pick up the slack. We'll be all right. Take a month or two off. The business will still be here when you get back."

"But, Timmy--"

"Will be just fine," Carol finished. "And Cy and I will be fine, too." She looked at Cy lovingly, but Joe could see the trepidation in her eyes.

Joe looked at Timmy who was sitting, eating, and ignoring. He was once again in his normal state of disconnect. He had to get out of here. This was clear now. "Okay," Joe said. "You've talked me into it."

Chapter Three

Joe was almost light-hearted as he packed his suitcase for the trip. It would be good to get away for awhile: away from this town, away from the constant responsibility of having to bail his sister out every time Timmy made her crazy, away from the memory of Helen...

Helen. The memory of her... "God...what am I going to do?" he muttered as the memory of her came flooding back. How could he ever escape her memory?

He had to think... Even though he wasn't going to leave until morning, he had to at least get out of the house for the night, or else he'd just sit and brood. Getting out, maybe taking a ride somewhere might help him shake his sadness. Then he'd hit the road tomorrow with a fresh attitude and a new purpose.

He drove to the baseball diamond to catch a local game he knew was already in progress. "Hey, Joe, nice to see you. That'll be one dollar," a middle-aged man with his belly hanging over his belt said.

Joe handed the man with the tickets a dollar and the man handed him a ticket in exchange. "Thanks, Hank," Joe said.

"I haven't seen you for awhile, Joe. How are things?" Hank asked.

"Fine, Hank. Just fine," Joe said politely.

He walked into the ball park. It was small and it had hard board bleachers, but the locals didn't care. They loved their ball park. Tonight the game was donkey ball--baseball played while riding donkeys. The players jumped on a donkey to run around the bases, and the crowd loved it. The donkeys would usually balk, and sometimes the player would slide off onto the dirt. Donkey ball was a big draw in Carlton Crossing. No one cared who won or lost. It was just fun for both the players and the game-goers.

Joe got completely caught up in the game until he heard scuffling and cursing below him. Joe was far enough up in the bleachers so that the eight feet of altitude gave him a clear view of the game.

"Calm down, sir," Joe heard a familiar voice say.

The scuffling and cursing continued, and when Joe looked down he saw his friend, Rosco Thorndike, town cop, being overpowered by a couple of young drunks. They were quickly getting the best of poor Rosco.

"Hey!" Joe yelled down, "cut it out!"

The drunk punks looked up. One reached up and grabbed Joe's ankle--Joe had the misfortune of sitting on the end of the bleacher row--and yanked so hard Joe toppled off the bleachers.

"Damn!" Joe muttered on the way down.

He landed hard on the grass and on his back. One of the punks kicked him in his ribs, but Joe managed to deflect most of the blow. He heard Rosco yelling as he rolled away from the punk who was pummeling him, now, fists pounding on his back.

Suddenly the punk's knees buckled and he went down. There was blood in his hair. Then the other punk went down. They both lay on the grass, dazed. Apparently Rosco had clouted them with his billy club, something of which Joe was most grateful for.

"C'mon, Joe, get up. Are you hurt?" Rosco was pulling on him, trying to get him off the grass. A curious crowd had gathered.

Joe struggled to his feet. An irritated donkey brayed from the field.

Rosco said, "I only have to work 'til the end of the game. Want to join me for a beer afterwards?"

Joe looked at Rosco, dazed. "Thank...thanks, Rosco."

"Do you want to?" Rosco, all cop, looked at him intently.

"Uh, yeah, sure. I'll meet you at the gate after the game."

* * *

Joe really didn't want to go have a beer with his friend. He wanted to go home and nurse his wounds. He wasn't hurt much, but the fight had made him sadder than he already was.

"Joe," Rosco tipped back a schooner and then set it on the table with a plunk, "why don't you talk to me?"

"What do you mean, Ros? I thought that's what we were doing? Talking. I'm talking now, Ros."

Rosco took another slug of beer. Joe took a swallow of cola.

"You don't talk to me anymore, Joe. You're like a dried-up well. Ever since you came home from the military you don't talk. You were thrilled to join. I remember the day you left. You were thrilled, Joe."

Joe put his head down, studying the cork drink coaster. "Yeah, well..."

"What happened, Joe? Something sour must have happened when you were over there. Something you won't talk about. Maybe it would help to unload."

"I...can't..." Joe said through gritted teeth, hoping it didn't show.

"Joe, you were so enthused about joining up. Something...," Rosco looked away, thinking, then looked back at Joe, "...something...something didn't set right with you there, did it?"

"Why do you say that?" Joe said defensively. "I put in my time. I performed the duties assigned me. I was a good soldier. I earned sharpshooter medals in basic. I marched to their tune. I was honorably discharged when my stint was up. What more is required of a military man, Rosco?" Joe didn't like the direction this conversation was taking.

Rosco sat back in his chair, now, as if appraising his dear friend who he'd known and been close to since childhood. "That scuffle tonight. You just lay there on the grass while that drunk was kicking you and beating on you. You didn't even fight back, man! Even we cops learn to fight back. What's happened to you? When we were kids you never failed to defend me if we got into a scuffle with the neighbor kids. You and I were sluggin' it out every time we'd turn around, it seemed. What kind of a military heart do you have? Didn't they teach you to defend yourself?"

The frustration in Rosco's voice was quite clear to Joe. He rubbed his face with his fingers, trying to massage away the emotional pain that seemed to live in every pore of his being. He sighed. "We were kids then, Ros. Kids. Scuffling in our back yards with our mommies and daddies close by in case we got into real trouble. You don't know what it was like, Ros."

"In Iraq...?" The question hung heavy in the air.

"Yeah," Joe said. "Yeah..."

"Well," Rosco said as he got up from his chair after tipping the last bubbles of beer down his throat, "I'll never believe you weren't a fighter out there, Joe. You're a peaceful man, but I know that if the reason is strong enough, you'll fight."

* * *

Joe sat behind the wheel of his Ford Explorer and stared off into space. Where was he going to go?

"Hey, neighbor!"

Joe snapped out of his reverie, then stared out the window at his friendly neighbor who he hadn't seen approach. "Oh, hi, Tom. You probably think I've lost my mind, sitting here like this."

"No, but I can see you're packed for a very long trip." He gawked into the backseat. "And since your wheels aren't goin' 'round, it'll also be a very cheap trip!" He chuckled.

Joe grinned. "I'm gone." As he put the Explorer into reverse, Tom waved him out of the driveway.

Before Joe reached the end of the block a headache hit him like a hammer. He gripped the wheel, staggered by the pain shooting through him. Almost simultaneously, his cell phone rang. Carol's name flashed on the display. "What?!" he bit out through the pain.

"Joe, I know you're on your way out of town about now, but please come! Come now! Timmy is throwing a fit!"

"I'll be right there." His headache ended at the same time his call did.

Joe heard Timmy yelling as he pulled into Carol's driveway. He went into the house at an urgent trot.

"He started screaming when I told him you were leaving this afternoon!" Carol said. "God! He's driving me absolutely nuts!"

Suddenly Joe was very angry. All the years he'd been helping care for Timmy crashed in on him. He was in no mood for Timmy's nonsense today. "Carol, sit down and be quiet. Going into a state of panic won't help," he said firmly.

"What are we going to do, Joe?" Carol moaned.

Joe was rapidly losing patience. "Just...sit...down."

He looked at Timmy. Timmy had that same strange look of self-awareness Joe had seen two nights ago. He wondered if Carol saw it, too.

"Tim," Joe began gruffly, "I'm going on a trip. Your mom and dad want me to go and I'm going. And I'm not going to worry that you'll give them trouble while I'm gone. Do you understand me, young man?"

Without warning, Timmy reached out and gripped Joe's wrist. With a strength that astonished Joe, Timmy pulled him to him. "Benjamin Huntington!" Timmy gasped.

"Damn, Tim, what did I just ask you to do?" Joe wanted to shake him.

"Timmy nice," Timmy said with a smirk laced with emotion.

And then, quite suddenly, the self-awareness, and the emotion that seemed to go with it was gone.

Joe got down on his haunches, closer to Timmy's eye level. Speaking with more patience, now, he said, "Tim, I'm going to ask you to be the man of the house while I'm gone. Will you do that?" Joe looked up at Carol. "Your mom needs your help. So does your dad."

"Timmy nice," the boy repeated woodenly.

"And I'm depending on you to take care of Sassy. I've never asked any other person to take care of her, but I'm trusting you with this very important job. Will you take care of her, Tim?"

"Timmy nice."

Joe turned to leave, but Timmy grabbed Joe by the wrist again, and this time nearly pulled Joe off his feet. "Pictures!" Timmy screamed. He dragged Joe over to the coffee table in the living room where drawings were strewn about on the table and carpet. Timmy quickly picked through the piles of drawings and then handed Joe a handful of them. The expression on Timmy's face was one of urgency: the self-awareness had returned. Joe was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with Timmy's displays of emotion. This wasn't Timmy. It couldn't be.

Joe paged through the drawings he held, examining each one carefully.

"Take," Timmy said, with a self awareness that was suddenly very frightening.

Joe looked at Carol, who was standing in the doorway, a sudden look of hope on her face. Then he looked back at Timmy. "I'll take good care of these, Timmy."

"Promise," Timmy said, firmly.

"Promise." Joe wanted to touch him. He wanted to pick up Timmy and hug him. But that would violate the boundaries Timmy had put around himself long ago. Joe couldn't do that to this autistic child, no matter how much he loved him.

"I'll be back soon, Tim," Joe said, his voice now hoarse with emotion.

Carol looked at Joe, tears in her eyes. "Do you suppose...?"

"Don't read too much into it, Carol." He kissed her quickly. "I'll call you every day."

* * *

Joe slid his debit card through the gas pump card processor. He stuck the hose's nozzle into the gas tank and got back into his car. It would only take a minute or two to fill the tank and then he'd be out of town. Carlton Crossing was small, almost in the middle of Nebraska. It had just two convenience stores in town, and this particular store was on the east side. He had arbitrarily decided to go east out of town. This trip Joe was about to take was going to be a random ride through the state. It would be as random as the random choosing of this particular convenience store.

As the pump whirred, Joe idly picked up the stack of drawings Timmy had insisted Joe take with him. Odd... These drawings were unlike anything Timmy had ever done. Timmy was a master draftsman. Even with the great speed with which he drew, the drawings would come out as if a very accomplished technical illustrator had done them. But these drawings... These... Joe couldn't believe it. The drawings were almost like rough drafts. It looked as if Timmy had been jotting down ideas rather than rendering highly finished images. And the drawings, for the most part, appeared to be virtually the same. Each drawing showed an SUV, presumably Joe's Ford Explorer, driving across a map. And... Hmmm... Joe scratched his head. He noticed that the drawings were numbered from 1 to 8.

The gas pump dinged, signaling that the tank was filled. Joe got out, hung the hose back on the pump and screwed the Explorer's gas cap back on.

When he got back in the truck he knew how he would take this trip. His trip would not be random decisions made at each intersection or junction. True to Timmy's penchant for organization, he had mapped out Joe's route. Why, Joe didn't know. But it relieved Joe on some level: he wouldn't have to drive aimlessly around the country. Instead, he would follow Timmy's map.

Joe suddenly sat up straight at the thought of it! Timmy had insisted Joe take the drawings with him. And once again he had reminded Joe of the name, "Benjamin Huntington". At that thought the threat of a headache appeared, then quickly disappeared.

He looked at the first map; Timmy had them all neatly in order. The map showed a spot in the middle of Nebraska. It was Carlton Crossing, and Timmy had labeled it "carltoncrossing" in his neat printing style. A somewhat crooked path went to the eastern border of the state. Now Joe felt a sense of urgency. He pulled out his PDA and launched his road map application. With a few taps the application quickly displayed which roads he should take to get him to his first destination. Satisfied, he put the car in gear and drove out of town.

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