The 911 missing person call from the Sunnyside Nursing Home came in at 8:45 PM on Christmas Eve. My partner and I had signed on for the extra holiday shift because we didn't have a family waiting at home for us. We were just a couple of twice-divorced, bitter single folks counting down the hours to retirement, living on donuts, coffee, and adrenalin.

As we headed toward the outskirts of town where the nursing home was located, the heavy falling snow made the roads slippery, and visibility was low. There were better nights than this for a search and rescue operation, that was certain. The thermometer wasn't helping us either, as it was hovering at -2 degrees. My biggest fear was that the missing resident had decided to go for a walk in the nearby woods, probably dressed only in a nightgown and slippers.

"So, what do you think, Tucker? Senior Citizen flavored ice-pop?" I asked my partner.

Looking at me over his black-framed glasses, he just shook his head and replied, "Jesus, Smitty. You are the most vile woman I've ever met. Let's hope not."

"Hey, I call 'em like I see 'em. It's two degrees below zero, it's a blizzard, and the missing woman is probably half-naked."

Silently scanning the woods alongside the road, Tucker just kept his thoughts to himself as we approached the driveway to the home. The cruiser plowed through six inches of wet, heavy snow, and we pulled up to the front entrance as an employee waved us in.

After stomping the snow off our boots, the nurse ushered us down the quiet hallway that smelled of ammonia and lemon pledge. "Birdy seemed just fine at dinner. We had a special Christmas Eve meal with a lovely cake for dessert. She was singing along to the carols the high school chorus was performing. I don't understand it. She has been fairly lucid these past couple of weeks."

The nurse unlocked a door, and we entered "Birdy's" sanctuary. "We will look around, but I don't know if we'll find any clues. Have you contacted her family?" I asked, pawing through well-organized drawers and flipping through neatly hung garments in the closet. A sudden flash of familiarity went through my mind as I caught the distinctive scent of Muguet de Bois perfume. My Aunt Dolly had worn that daily, and it was one of her favorite Christmas gifts from me. A sudden feeling of connectivity overwhelmed me. I pushed that sucker back down where it belonged. I told myself that this was business, not a family reunion with ghosts.

"Oh, her family has all moved away, the ones she had left. Her husband passed away last year around this time, and we thought we were going to lose her too," the nurse explained.

Tucker piped up, "We will take a quick look around the property, but I think I will call the search and rescue team in case she has wandered into the woods. There's a creek running through just a few dozen yards from the property, and we don't want to take a chance."

"Oh, dear. That's not good. Well, whatever I can do for you, please let me know. Please don't hesitate to look in all the common areas. We've checked the resident rooms already," The nurse informed us.

Tucker, always more astute to the human condition than I was, commented, "You don't think she wandered away on purpose because she was thinking about her late husband, do you?"

"Naw. She was probably glad to not deal with his snoring and bad habits anymore. I'll bet she's shacking up with some hot, young orderly," I snapped.

"Never mind," he snapped back, rolling his eyes at me.

We made the rounds of the dining room, kitchen, and physical therapy rooms with no luck. Tucker pulled his watch cap on over his thinning, gray hair. "Time to go for a walk in the snow. You coming?"

"Do I have a freakin' choice?" I whined.

"Nope," he declared with a smirk.

"I didn't think so," I glumly concluded as I pulled my cap and gloves on, following him out into the frigid night air, my nostrils sticking together with every breath and my cheeks prickling in the cold wind. "Sheesh, I hope she was dressed warmly, this is brutal out here, even with our winter gear," I opined.

"Chances are she was in a nightgown and bedroom slippers, Smitty. I'm gonna call in the search and rescue team and grab some blankets and a first aid kit from the cruiser."

He handed me the emergency blankets and kit while he radioed in the call. Once we knew the team was en route, we began a careful search of the property, looking for footprints, which were hard to find with all the fresh snow that had fallen. Having no luck in the parking lot or yard of the home, we began walking down the road twenty feet in either direction, looking for any hint of our "Birdy".

Nothing to the South, so we turned around and headed North, carefully brushing snow away as we trudged through tire ruts so our footprints wouldn't cover up the missing person's prints. About twenty-five feet down the road, we found a pair of twisted and bent wire-framed glasses that had been crushed into a tire rut.

"What do you think, Tuck? Abduction? Rescuer?"

"Hard to say. I don't see any signs of a struggle near the glasses. Maybe it was a good Samaritan, and they took her to the hospital? I'll radio it in to check hospitals," he told me as he touched the radio on his shoulder that buzzed into life.

I walked forward about ten paces and could barely make out the outline of a small, bare footprint highlighted by my flashlight in the crystalline snow. Oh boy. It was worse than I thought. She wasn't even wearing bedroom slippers. How on earth did an eighty-year-old woman walk this far in this weather barefoot?

"Tuck, Tuck! I found footprints. You aren't going to believe this, but our Birdy is barefoot in this howling storm."

This missing person had become "our Birdy" in less than half an hour. This is why cops can't leave their work at work. Our work is all about human beings. Whether we arrest or save them, they infiltrate our souls with their troubles and seep their pain into our hearts, whether we want them to or not.

Birdy had grabbed a hold of my heart as soon as I smelled that familiar old-fashioned French perfume my Aunt used to wear. For Tuck, it probably happened as soon as he heard the call. He's like that, always trying to hide his tender heart under a gruff exterior. But he can't fool me. We'd been riding together for seven years, and not much gets past me. Tucker had held me together and kept me employed while recovering from my second divorce. It was messy and sad and took me forever to get over. He listened quietly, never offering to fix me. That was all I needed: an ear.

Tuck knelt down in the snow beside me to examine the footprint. Running his gloved hands down his face in frustration, he turned to me and said, "This just keeps getting worse. It's a long way to walk barefoot in this weather. She must be one determined lady. Let's stay close to the ground and see if more prints show up."

He found the next set of prints: one bare foot and one with a slipper still on. At least she still had one slipper. We were hunched over, practically crawling on the hard-packed snow, while the storm kept barreling down, relentlessly blasting our faces with bitter, stinging, icy pellets.

Tuck looked up at me with concern. "Smitty, you holding up? You need a break?" he said, pulling a handkerchief out of his uniform pants pocket for me.

"Thanks, yeah. I'm just worried about our Birdy. She's not going to be okay, is she, Tuck?" I asked, wiping the tears and snow from my face.

"I can't even think that far ahead. We're thirty years younger, dressed for the weather, and struggling. I just want to find her, is all."

Flashing red lights lit up the snowbanks and danced off from the whirling snow, causing us to move to the side of the road as the search and rescue teams approached. I flagged them down and told the lead team they needed to search the wooded area behind the nursing home to rule out the danger of Birdy falling into the frigid waters of the creek. Once they were on their way, Tucker and I resumed our painstaking search for tiny footprints.

An unusual glint caught my eye as we crept along, searching for clues. I shone my light on it and was rewarded with a broken gold necklace with a locket hanging from the twisted chain. I held it up in the air, and Tucker pushed himself up from a crouch with a groan and shuffled over to take a look. I wiped the slush off the locket and pried it open with freezing fingers. On one side was an oval frame with a tiny photograph of a dapper young man with dark hair combed into a duck's tail. On the other side was a similar photo of a pretty girl with short, blonde curls neatly tucked into a pink chiffon head scarf. A perfect fifties couple who probably did the twist and listened to Chubby Checker together. Maybe they went to the malt shop and high school hops.

Birdy was now more than a memorable scent or an elderly missing person to us. She was real. A person who had lived a life and deserved to be found so she could keep living. We stayed on the trail until the little footprints disappeared into a snowbank at the side of the road.

Tuck reached out and steadied me as I climbed the bank, wondering at the agility of our little Birdy. I had all I could do to not wipe out in the two feet of snow, even with help from Tucker. Once settled at the base of the hill's incline, I helped Tuck keep his balance on the slippery slope as we climbed. A fresh wind blew the powdery snow aside, revealing more tiny prints that had previously made it up this mound.

"Where was she going?" I asked Tuck, troubled that this woman would have ventured out in the storm on some mysterious mission that only she understood.

"Beats me. But I don't think she was out here wandering. I think she knew exactly where she was going. Just a hunch." He replied.

We slipped and slid to a small tree stand in the middle of an old farm field, bordered on two sides with haphazard rock walls that stood two feet high and were covered almost completely by the storm. An unnatural lump was evident in the snow near an old apple tree. A sick feeling began in the back of my throat and traveled to my mouth as I retched up my last cup of coffee.

"No! Birdy, we're here, we're here. Don't give up!" I yelled as the blizzard winds stole my words, rendering me voiceless.

Tuck reached out and took my arm gently. "Smitty, Darlene, we've found her. But she's not alive. Okay? Look at me. It's Okay. We did what we could, and we'll take her back home. Give me the blankets. You stay here."

"No. I don't want Birdy to be alone. I'm coming with you. I'm all right. I want to be there with her, Tuck."

Shaking his head, Tucker knew not to argue with me. We approached the lump under the snow with caution and gently brushed the accumulation off from our dear Birdy, who had died with a brilliant smile on her face and her eyes open and shining happily in the glow of my flashlight. So untroubled and young-looking was she that I immediately could tell she was the pretty girl in the locket.

We placed the blanket over her, rolling her over so her body was completely shrouded and protected from the frigid cold and wind. I called in to dispatch and told them to send the search and rescue home, as Tucker and I had found the missing person deceased in the snow. I gave them the last known location before we left the road, and dispatch would send the coroner's vehicle to that location.

As always, Tucker was more aware of his hunches than I was. Before we hefted Birdy's little body between us for the hike down the hill to the road, he walked closer to the apple tree where Birdy had spent her last moments on Earth. Brushing away the windswept, caked snow from the trunk of the gnarled little tree, Tucker waved me over.

'Jimmy

It's a freezing day in December, almost Christmas. My breath puffs out like clouds of cigarette smoke in the clear night air of the motel parking lot. At the moment, I wish it was cigarette smoke because I can't remember being this nervous in a very long time. Maybe the Christmas Eve service twenty years ago, when a pushy grandmother shoved her mini-skirted teen granddaughter up to the piano in our little Baptist Church and plopped an unfamiliar piece of music before me, stating, "Missy is going to sing. Play this."

This wasn't our Baptist Church, and I wasn't about to play a difficult piece in front of two hundred people. It was a sleazy motel parking lot, and I was here to meet someone I'd fantasized about every day for the past year. Someone who was not my husband and someone twenty years my junior. I hugged myself to keep from shivering as I glanced around, almost hoping he wouldn't show.

How did the 70-year-old church pianist and Sunday school teacher end up in this motel parking lot, waiting to keep all the promises she had unwisely made to this young man? What if my knee popped out in the middle of giving him, you know what? What if I broke a hip as he crashed into me during, the well, the thing? What if I had a freaking heart attack from the excitement even before we got into the room?

My wiser angels never weighed in on these tricky moments, so I stayed, shaking and chastising myself, "Fine Christmas gift for the hubs, girl. Meeting a lover for the first time ever. Forty years of faithfulness, and now this?"

This circumstance wasn't entirely my fault. When my husband retired last January, he suggested getting into swinging. I was shocked when he stated that was how he wanted to spend his retirement. His idea of swinging was to invite another woman to our bed. In trying to battle his penchant for watching me with another woman, I suggested we look for a man first. He reluctantly agreed and signed me up for a dating site,

orchestrating everything from what picture to post, what desires I had, and exactly what I was looking for, leaving out the cuckold aspect.

Being married for almost forty years had rendered me invisible. I was the kids' mom, and now I was a grandmother. I was my husband's wife, the retired piano player, and Sunday school teacher. Not exactly a sparkling Play Boy bunny resume. Plus, I was almost seventy. If a man had ever noticed me during those years, I would have suggested he try to locate his seeing-eye dog. Men's attention was something I simply did not worry about. There was none.

Within half an hour of my dating profile going live, I had over sixty requests for more information, messages, hearts, flowers, you name it. 'Hmm. Weren't there any women on this site,' I thought. It was a bit overwhelming as I tried replying politely to everyone while my husband tried to explain that I picked who I wanted and moved on. Ouch, that was a bit harsh.

We had settled on a sixty-plus age group, as he didn't want some young punk with his wife. You know how those fifty-year-old punks can be. One young man kept popping up in my feed, asking me why I didn't consider him. I explained that someone in their forties was much too young. I was sure he was joking when he told me he liked older women. Try as I might, he would not give up. I finally told the hubs he was the man I was interested in.

After an hour or so of explaining why that was a bad idea, hubby finally wrote the man a very explicit message explaining what he would encounter when we were together. He told him we would be having a three-some and that it would be a night the man would never forget, as I was one talented and sensual woman.

The man eagerly accepted the challenge, and then my husband withdrew the offer, pulling the rug out from under the young guy. I was mortified. This led to months of texts between him and me, with me almost deciding to leave my marriage behind at one point. Then, in the Summer, my husband had a near-fatal heart attack, and I had to get my priorities in order, leaving my infatuation in the dust.

Or, so I thought. Try as I might, weeks could go by without checking on my 'almost lover'. I would declare victory to my therapist, who never really understood my strange infatuation with this man anyway. Then, as soon as I heard a song that reminded me of him, I would begin pining for him again. My poor therapist was so distraught at my obsession that I was worried she might have a nervous breakdown over it. I finally stopped telling her about him. What she didn't know wouldn't hurt her.

Not that Jake was sweet to me. He was an angry, sullen individual who rarely said anything kind to me. He insulted me, called me a slut wife, and told me that I liked holding my marriage over his head. He constantly told me I did not try hard enough to meet him when he always backed away. It was like a game of cat and mouse, and I didn't know if I was the cat or the mouse. Yet, still, I persisted.

I can't recall a man I argued with more viciously than Jake, my texting lover. I never called my husband names or tore him up one side and down the other. The safety of hiding behind my phone screen or knowing I would never meet Jake in person made me bold. Once, I commented that if we ever met in person, a fistfight would break out after the first five minutes. He replied that, more likely, full-on animalistic screwing would break out.

Here I was, feet frozen to the frosty blacktop of this old motel parking lot, wondering if we were going to have a fistfight or a night of sexual pleasure so intense that I would never want to go back home. It was too late to rescind my Christmas gift offer of an evening of lovemaking to Jake. How many hours had I thought about him? How many times had I woken up, ashamed, from dreams of making love to him? How many imaginary conversations had I contrived, telling him how much I needed and loved him from our first real conversation?

A lone set of headlights turned into the parking lot, zeroing in on me as they slowly approached. A deer in the headlights. A guilty woman in heels, stockings, and a short skirt with seductive, lacy underthings hiding beneath. I feared my age would now matter because we would be close together for the night. Afraid I wouldn't be good enough for him. Scared of being a disappointment, I slipped back into the driver's seat of my car, pushed the button, and slowly backed out of the lot just as he exited from his car, shrugging his shoulders at me, just like his favorite emoji when I spoke of my feelings for him. Good. I hope you feel confused, just like you made me feel for the last year.

On the way home, I stopped at an open store and picked up my husband's favorite fruitcake, with chocolate milk for him, and a big bottle of wine for myself. Then I drove home, sighing in relief, after blocking Jake's number.

Not tonight, Satan. Not tonight.

Tomorrow? Maybe. Shh. Don't tell my therapist.

i feel like i've made myself be a very neutral person, and as a result of that all sorts of people confide in me for their problems .i don't particularly have a problem with people confiding in me, in fact i think its quite nice to know that my friends trust me enough to tell me about themselves on a deeper level, but i don't believe i'm being confided in as a friend at the moment. i am being confided in as a mere listener who's sole job is to agree with whoever i'm talking to. i think i originally made myself like this as a mechanism to get people to like me more, but now i've found myself in a position where i'm a mediator for people who cant be mature enough to have a conversation as adults with each other. i find this very petty and prideful of both of them, like if only they talked to each other then all this would be resolved and i wouldn't have to be a mediator. the thing about being a mediator is that your opinion isn't usually what people want to hear. the mediator tells people what they want to think, and that's why both sides of the dispute confide in whoever the mediator is. nobody wants to hear the mediator's thoughts and suggestions, they want to hear him echo back their opinion and agree with them to feel validation, to feel as though their opinion isn't just utter nonsense. that's why people confide in him. because he is the people pleaser, and they are the people using said people pleaser to make up for their own lack of sense of self. that's what i've concluded from this situation. maybe i should be someone who restricts themselves more so that i'm not used as a tool for people to validate themselves. though now that i think about it, the part of me that's so neutral to everything must have been made like this on purpose simply for the sake of being useful to others around me. maybe i wanted this, maybe i wanted to be a person people would want for purposes as shallow as that. but as i change and grow as a person i realize that maybe simple validation for the sake of upping my own self esteem isn't worth changing myself over. i've rambled quite a bit now, so i think ill stop here.

Bobby walked into the room and Julie Ann's heart fluttered. She hated it. Her body betrayed her. How could she have feelings for someone who embodies the antithesis of everything she believed. Sure, Bobby was tall and had features that were easy on the eyes. But his attitudes toward women were from the stone age. In fact, he barely even considered them human. Yet here she was, with all the other girls in class fawning over the arch typical alpha male. The guy all the other guys want to be, and all the girls want to be with. If you are thinking Gaston from Beauty and the beast you're not far off. Now bobby wasn't a cartoon villain. He never actually treated anyone with disdain and seemed to think too highly of himself, but he did walk around with confidence and that confidence, coupled with his natural appearance garnered him a lot of privilege, which he was not ashamed to cash in on when needed.

Julie Ann looked around the room. She noticed the other girls whose bodies involuntarily became putty when he entered the room. It disgusted her. Women were not put on this Earth to merely service men as if that's the whole of existence. It was moments like this that she hated her own biology with the passion of a super nova. Her mind didn't need or want men, but her body was a different matter altogether. Her body wanted as much to have those strong arms wrapped around her as much as any other girl wanted it, maybe more. To have those lips pressed against hers would be heaven. Just as she was getting lost in the thought, she snapped herself out of it and a wave of disgust washed over her.

How could she think like that? How could she voluntarily want to live under the oppression that women who came before her had no choice but to put up with. She has a choice! She must choose freedom! She must navigate relationships on her own terms. Let all the pick Me's fight over Bobby. He isn't a prize worth winning. As the thoughts swirl around her head, she feels someone's stare. She looks up to see Bobby standing next to her desk.

"Hi, Julie Ann, right?" Bobby asks. Julie's face flushes as her body continues its betrayal with full force.

"Yeah." Was all she could get out. She instinctively started playing with her hair which would later irritate her to no end.

"I'm having some trouble with English and Freddie clued me in that you are really smart in that. I really need to pass or I'll be ineligable for the playoffs. You wouldn't mind helping me out, would you?" Bobby's voice sounded sweet, and Julie Ann could tell he had a lot of practice talking to girls. She was trapped though. He could have talked to her like a jerk, and she would still have had to say yes. If Bobby didn't play in the game, the team would lose and everyone would blame her for it. Her life would be over.

"I would love to help you." Juile Ann replied.

"Great, I knew you wouldn't let me down. I'll catch up with you later." Bobby answered.

"Okay" Was all she could say in reply.

Her body's dream had come true, she would be alone with Bobby. However, her mind had a different opinion. She would be forced the help the one person that in her mind personified evil and set women's rights back a few centuries.

Abe knocked back three shots before the tension that lived in his back and neck started to ebb. He was staring into his fourth when someone started playing the piano. Not a bawdy, good time tune meant to rouse. Not at all. He closed his eyes, letting the whiskey and the music lull him into a sense of peace that escaped him most times as he spent all his waking hours working hard to put his town and state, the newest in the Union, on the map, so to speak. He aimed to leave a mark in the world.

The music reminded him of when his daughters used to play for him back in Ohio, after dinner Saturday nights. They were grown now, the two eldest married. It'd been months since he'd had news of them from his wife Mary. Or any news really. Not a word. Which, if he were honest, wasn’t a bad thing. Meant she hadn't spent all his money yet. The mail coach was slow but worked. The telegraph had been available going on six years, ever since the miners came running, chasing silver just east of his beloved Carson City - so lack of means was not her problem.

He was, he reckoned.

She was still mourning their son, Charles. Still blaming him for taking her baby out to the wild west. He'd still be alive if it weren't for you. He would have been happy to stay in Ohio, make a life. A good life. A safe life. But no, you could never be satisfied…He shook his head. Not because she was wrong, just to get her out of it.

He was taking another swallow when a voice began to sing - it was the kind of voice that makes people believe in God. It was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard. It warmed him even more than the whiskey. She sang of home, the loneliness of separation, and the love of a good woman waiting with open arms for her man to come home. But it wasn’t the words that moved him. It was the voice itself. It caressed. Embraced. Soothed.

Eyes on his empty whiskey glass, Abe didn't move until long after the final note. He should have been thinking of Mary and the big house he needed to build so she would come make their home in Nevada. He was never going back to Ohio and she wasn't going to leave all she'd acquired over the years -- or her daughters for that matter-- to live out of a trunk in a three room house till he had time to build something bigger, more to her liking.

But he wasn't thinking about Mary. Or building a house. Or his investments. Or the Nevada State Legislature. Or the newly established Carson City Mint.

He was thinking about when he could hear that voice again.

"Hey, Keep," Abe said to the bartender.

"Another whiskey?"

"Yeah, but I also have a question."

The bartender refilled Abe's glass and took the money Abe lay on the bar top.

"Who was that singing?"

"What rock you been under, Mister? That was Washoe Annie. Everybody 'round these parts knows Washoe Annie. Or wants to," he guffawed. "If you know what I mean."

Abe was not in the habit of buying female company. He was faithful to Mary, although it was more out of habit and lack of time than any great sense of fidelity.

"I'd like an introduction."

The bartender laughed. "You and every cowboy in here. It's not your night, fella. She already took tonight's lucky bastard up to heaven. Maybe tomorrow," he said, walking away to serve up more whiskey to the sorrow-drowning men bellying up to the bar for another round.

The next night when Annie came downstairs, it was in a new dress delivered just that evening from the only seamstress in town.

"I didn't order a new dress, Mabel."

"Oh, I know that," Mabel responded, bustling into the room. "Was a man that bought it. A stranger."

"A man? A stranger?" Annie shut the door but didn't turn around. Her heart had begun to pound. Wondering. Hoping. She turned as Mabel unwrapped the dress.

"Yes’m. He come in like he owned the place. Asks me if I'd ever made a dress for you. Of course, I says. Asks me the color of your eyes. Blue like a robin’s egg, I says. Do you have fabric that color, he says. Just so happens I do, I says. Can you make this dress before tonight, he says, handing me a picture looks like someone drew. 'Course I can, I says, but that'll cost you extra. Money's no concern. Name your price, he says. I named my price and nearly fainted dead away when he handed it right over. It was more than I get for twenty dresses." Mabel stopped talking long enough to shake out the dress. "What do you think?"

"What did he look like?" Annie asked, unable to breathe.

Mabel walked over and held the dress up against Annie. "Not like these rundown cowboys, I'll tell you that. Clearly has more than two nickels to rub together. Well-made clothes even though they weren't new. Tall fella, stormy gray eyes, probably on the other side of 50 if I had to guess, but hasn't gone to seed like a lot of older men with money who eat and drink too much and sit behind a desk all day. Mostly black hair with a sprinkling of gray, just enough to make him look distinguished rather than old. Very serious, though. Couldn't make him smile."

It was him. It had to be him.

She put a hand to her heart, eyes closed and thought maybe, just maybe this once she had been heard.

"Well, c'mon now, Annie. Take off that dress. We ain't got all night."

Abe was watching from the table closest to the piano. He stood as Annie descended. Her searching eyes found his admiring ones and she slowed, looking her fill and letting him do the same. She continued down and made her way to the table.

"Thank you kindly for the dress, sir.” She took a breath, remembering. “Except for the piano my daddy gave me that burned in a fire, it is by far the most beautiful gift I have ever received."

"I assure you, the pleasure of seeing you in it is worth far more than the dress itself.”

Annie inclined her head in thanks; a blush, quite uncommon for her, colored her unpowdered cheeks.

“Please,” Abe said, pulling out a chair for her. Once she’d sat, he retook his seat across from her.

“I don’t want to mislead you, Miss Annie, so I will come straight to the point. I am a married man. I have been married for 30 years though we have been living apart for ten while I’ve been out here…building. My son came with me but he was killed two years back and I am fairly certain Mrs. Curry, my wife, is still mourning. And angry. And I s’pose even when we lived together, we were just doing what was expected of us, as people do. I was a man in need of a wife to take care of me and my home, with whom to raise a family. The babies came. She raised them. I provided.

“But my passion has always been to build something important. Something to be remembered long after I’m gone. Mrs. Curry doesn’t understand that. She only cares about her creature comforts, and I don’t fault her for that. But we don't comfort each other, seems to me. She never wanted more than the children. I guess I never wanted more than my work.

“I’m not complaining. We’ve had a good life. I’m just telling you all this so you can make a decision knowing all the facts."

“A decision? I don’t even know your name.” Annie wasn’t sure what to make of the man’s little speech, and didn’t know why she bothered asking his name - it’s not something she usually wanted to know. Why have a name to put to a face she’d soon have to forget?

“Pardon me, Miss Annie. That was most remiss of me. My name is Abraham Curry, but you can call me Abe, if it pleases you to do so."

“Well, all right, Abe, I’d like that.”

“As I was saying, I have a proposal for you.”

“A proposal?”

“Yes. I am not the kind of man to take you upstairs and then go on my way. I don’t condemn you for making a living, or any man for taking what little joy and comfort he can get wherever he can get it. But I find I don’t much like to share.

“Miss Annie, last night, I felt something I’ve never felt before. Not ever. You gave me a peace I want to feel again. I can’t offer you marriage, but I would offer you a place by my side in Carson City. I have a little three room house where I can install a piano for you to play to your heart’s content. I can’t promise you all my attention and time, I still have duties and businesses that keep me very busy, but I can promise I will take care of you for as long as I live. All I ask is that you be mine and mine alone.”

“Abe.” Washoe Annie was near tears. Last evening she had longed for one night with this man who called to her. For him, a man far beyond her experience, to choose her. She had never hoped for anything more than a walk up the stairs.

She’d never belonged to any man exclusively. The women who worked the saloon had taken her in when she was just 12 and had lost her parents and brother in a fire. There was no family to whom she could turn. At first she just helped keep the rooms above the bar clean, washed the linen and glasses and such. When they heard her playing some soulful tune on the old upright one afternoon, they asked if she could play loud and happy tunes. She made up a few ditties on the spot. After that, they had her play nights to draw in more cowboys to drink and revel. Then one night, when she was seventeen and a quiet beauty, a young cowboy with a pretty face offered her more money than she’d ever had to let him take her upstairs. She said no for quite a while, still dreaming a good man like her daddy would come take her away.

Until she didn't.

“Abe.” She repeated. “Perhaps we should go upstairs and make sure this thing between us isn’t just..I don’t know, wishful thinking. It would be foolhardy for me to follow you to Carson City where I know no one just to have you abandon me because we don’t…fit. I don’t fancy trying to start over somewhere new. Life is not easy for a woman alone.”

“I will never hurt you, Miss Annie.” He thought for a moment. “I will deed you the house so you will always have a home, and your own money so you need never work again even should something happen to me.

“How…? You don't even know me.”

“I know everything I need to know. You spoke to me last night. I heard every word.”

Abe stood. “Miss Annie, I know what I want and it's you.” He paused, looking into her eyes. “But if it will give you peace of mind,” he reached for her hand, and led her up the stairs.

Surprise Attack at ground zero

coordinates: 21°22′N 157°57′

Most every American soldier sailor tinker spy (and innocent civilians) moseying along the beautifully picturesque island of Oahu, the evening of December sixth never imagined, predicted, nor suspected, what annihilating blitzkrieg, catastrophizing debacle, emasculating fiend, Gorgonesque hellish imperial Japanese Kamikaze looming monstrosity neared Secret Operation Z, the unsuspecting civilian and military population, nonchalantly, insouciantly, and blithely went about their usual business, and upon late night hours of dark bedded down until awaking to an unbelievable, unforgettable, unnatural morrow.

When those first rays of sun shone forth on one typical pacific island, that unforgettable December seventh dawned with early risers basking in the warm sunlight initially oblivious to impending insanity, infamy, ignominy, et cetera.

Stock still, and as keen as a doe wide deer (there stood at least) one watchmen accidentally beholding conspiracy displayed flapping eyes insouciantly grimacing, evincing, convincingly approaching flashing red sun sinister terrorists unloading vicious wickedness.

Annihilation, eradication, incineration, punctuated earsplitting cacophony, when just a scant number of hours prior total mortal wrested tranquility, quality, piety, magnanimity, levity, jocularity, harmony became instantaneously obliterated pitching raw troops into the killing machine, where awaiting days, weeks, months...hence, a battle fatigue would be worn couture forcing the hand of Franklin Delano Roosevelt to issue additional conscripts as World War II torch hoard former neutrality, where statecraft instantaneously donned a take no prisoners posture.

This surprise aggressive attack launched a maelstrom of pandemonium before a handle could be grasped to stave off subsequent rapacious quicksilver pounding obliterating national dire straits, sans moody blue.

Loathsomeness kickstarted joint intelligence hurriedly galvanizing fortified ensemble. Duty culled country bravehearts answering belated call to arms, and farewell to family, which urgency to fight back wreaked havoc among family and fare thee well to friends.

No matter what price (paid with young and restless lives), an esprit de corps gung-ho, johnny minted platoons snapped, crackled, and popped into ready action.

Off to the Pacific fleet went stripling chaps barreling into harms way, charging full speed ahead, apply electric koolaid acid test (with no room to fail) assaying quickly assembled on the fly zippered dive bombarding claques, whose headlong risk sans carpet bombing sorties always carried a worse fate than death.

Plan net quickened scuttling damaged military armaments tugged back for possibly being repurposed for makeshift calisthenic, gymnastic, logically rustic yakkking gastric peptic zapper, or if scrapped hastily recycled for munitions.

After some degree of order instituted out of chaos, a well plotted strategy enlisted every spare, tiptop usable vet. This attack on Pearl Harbor delivered (as aforementioned), categorized as a surprise military strike by the Imperial Japanese Navy Air Service against the United States naval base at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii Territory, on the morning of December 7, 1941.

The attack, also known as the Battle of Pearl Harbor, led to the United States' entry into World War II. The Japanese military leadership referred to the attack as the Hawaii Operation and Operation AI, and as Operation Z during its planning. Japan intended the attack as a preventive action to keep United States Pacific Fleet from interfering with military actions they planned in Southeast Asia against overseas territories of the United Kingdom, the Netherlands, and United States.

Well synchronized, linkedin, and choreographed arced traceries over the next seven hours. Japanese coordinated, carried out simulated theatric, which witnessed attacks on the U.S. held Philippines, Guam and Wake Island and on the British Empire in Malaya, Singapore, and Hong Kong.

The attack commenced at 7:48 a.m. Hawaiian Time (18:18 UTC). The base was attacked by Imperial Japanese aircraft (including fighters, level and dive bombers, and torpedo bombers) in two waves, launched from six aircraft carriers.

All eight U.S. Navy battleships were damaged, with four sunk. All but the USS Arizona were later raised, and six were returned to service and went on to fight in the war. The Japanese also sank or damaged three cruisers, three destroyers, an anti-aircraft training ship, and one minelayer.

One hundred eighty-eight U.S. aircraft were destroyed; 2,403 Americans were killed and 1,178 others were wounded. Important base installations such as the power station, dry dock, shipyard, maintenance, and fuel and torpedo storage facilities, as well as the submarine piers and headquarters building (also home of the intelligence section), were not attacked.

Japanese losses were light: 29 aircraft and five midget submarines lost, and 64 servicemen killed. One Japanese sailor, Kazuo Sakamaki, was captured.

The surprise attack came as a profound shock to the American people and led directly to the American entry into World War II in both the Pacific and European theaters. The following day, December 8, the United States declared war on Japan, and several days later, on December 11, Germany and Italy declared war on the U.S. The U.S. responded with a declaration of war against Germany and Italy.

Domestic support for non-interventionism, which had been fading since the Fall of France in 1940, disappeared. There were numerous historical precedents for unannounced military action by Japan, but the lack of any formal warning, particularly while negotiations were still apparently ongoing, led President Franklin D. Roosevelt to proclaim December 7, 1941, "a date which will live in infamy."

Because the attack happened without a declaration of war and without explicit warning, the attack on Pearl Harbor was later judged in the Tokyo Trials to be a war crime.

Chapter Three

Aurora

The city of Aurora, Colorado’s population hovers in the high seventy-thousands. Its racial make up remained unchanged for the past several decades until 2012, when an influx of Mexican and Hispanic immigrants flooded the area. Blacks still made up six percent, but because of a new Amgen facility, a wave of Asians with science and medical backgrounds moved in at about the same percentage rate as Blacks, but in the better situated

neighborhoods. Caucasians held an ever shrinking majority. The Native American population numbered less than three percent. The bulk of that minority had migrated from the Southern Ute Reservation some three hours away in search of a better life here, Cody Sawyer among them.

The Aurora Sheriff’s Department had jurisdiction up to the reservation’s boundaries. Any crime that crossed over to native land instantly ran into a mountain of legal papers and permissions. Cody never considered working for his tribe. Since he could remember, he wanted to follow in, if not surpass, his father’s footsteps.

After eight years with his grandfather, Cody had moved off the reservation at sixteen at the apex of the opioid epidemic that ravaged the region, but long before the Fentanyl scourge. He had watched what alcohol slowly did to his grandfather, like a cancer metastasizing to all parts of the Ute community, fraying the torn fabric of what was left of their inherent way of life. He felt as if he was watching the loss of a culture, a lost language and when adding poverty, drugs and alcohol; a lost people. There were parts of the community where families loved and thrived, but even those areas could feel the dragging undertow of hopelessness and poverty.

Cody remembered the condition of the two room one bath matchstick dwelling, considered the high end of tribal housing when built. He remembered the last words his grandfather spoke to him: harsh, unforgivable, venomous. “You go live with the white man in the white man’s world. You are not my grandson, you never were.”

Cody turned around. “You don’t mean that.” He knew it was more than just the bourbon talking. He knew his grandfather blamed Cody’s white father for the death of his only child and daughter. The alcohol stirred his grandfather’s emotional bile to the surface, causing the spewing of anger and disgust. Once again, Cody tried to reason.

“Grandfather, If I don’t go now, I never will,” he said.

“Go! Go! See if I care! Do whatever the fuck you want.” With his back to Cody, an arm waved him off.

Cody started to leave when his grandfather spoke again. “Tsh-arr Nan-tun-e!”

Cody froze at the door a final time. He heard him say it again. “Tsh-arr Nan-tun-e!” followed by a snarled laugh. “Hah!”

The screen door snapped closed behind him. Walking away, Cody’s boots pulverized the desert gravel beneath as those words echoed in his head. It was the first time in a long time he had heard his grandfather call him by his Indian name. It was a name he hated. It wasn't just because it reminded him of his mixed breed status, but more the way his grandfather would drunkenly slur and spit it out, like a metaphorical tomahawk. A bitter attempt to

cleave Cody’s identity in two.

His Indian mother had named him after a brave chief in their family tree, White Hawk, and his great grandfather Elk Hunter. When combined, Cody’s name roughly translates to a combination of the two; “White Hunter.” Despite his misgivings, the white part had nothing to do with his real father’s Caucasian blood flowing through his arteries. It was a genuine tribute to his native ancestors. To Cody, it was a reminder of being stuck between

two worlds when he tried to see himself as part of one.

He heard his drunken grandfather’s laughter escaping out of an open window in front. “Tsh-arr Nan-tun-e! White Hunter! Hahahahaha!” The Grandfather, aware of its effect, continued to twist the emotional knife with a jealous joy.

Cody never looked back and from that day forward, never took a drink and never spoke to his grandfather again. Instead, Cody enlisted in the Marines when he was seventeen, serving one tour of duty in Afghanistan, where he earned his sniper’s badge. At twenty, he returned to Aurora and applied for the police department. Hired at age 24, and in a twist of irony, they gave him the area closest to a reservation to patrol. The department had an office of fifteen cops, plus support personnel. They hired their first African American police

officer in 2012, Nathan Whitman, or Nate, as he was called. Two years later, they partnered him with a second African American hire, Officer Anthony T. Toney, whom Nate referred to as "Tease," "T-Bag," "Three T's," or "Toni, Tony, Toney," among half a dozen more riffs.

Cody was the first and only Native American on the force and not unfamiliar with bigotry. Like mineral veins found in rock, racism permeated the department. You didn’t have to dig too deep to excavate them. It didn’t help ethnic relations at all when Whitman and Toney were passed over for the one opening in the homicide department by someone with much less seniority. The Sheriff's Department had to comply with an affirmative action mandate from the city council and select a minority for the position. The department superiors seemed to hold their noses when they choose Cody. A move meant to quiet down complaints for diversity while looking as if it was changing the good old boy culture

of the department. Those in power had no intention of watching Cody advance beyond his station. The very day of his promotion, he was to be assigned to the Cold Case Department, or what they nicknamed “TheWilderness.” The Siberia of homicide investigation.

Chief Travis Maxwell ran the Sheriff’s Department for the past twenty years and at the age of 56, couldn’t even begin to contemplate retirement. His hunger for holding power was only matched by his hunger for the Pioneer Chicken franchise down the block. People might wonder what kind of power he could wield, but in this neck of the woods, there weren’t many choices for powerful positions other than Mayor or owner of the Crossman zinc mining company that employed 20 percent of the population. The chief didn’t like to get his hands dirty, physically or politically.

“Sawyer, Come in.” He smiled.

Cody entered his arm in a fresh white cast and sling. Beneath his uniform a pressure bandage hugged his torso. The scars from his hunting ordeal barely visible on his face or arms. With the help from an Oxy prescription and patience, he managed that morning to get his beige dress shirt on his bad arm positioned to where putting on the badge was no ardent task.

“Sit, officer. Sit.” Maxwell pointed to the chair in a corner. Go ahead slide it over here and have a seat.”

Cody nodded. Sliding the chair into place Cody couldn’t help but notice the height he sat had him a bit lower than the chief. Almost an imperceptible difference but Cody understood who psychological advantage.

“That was some ordeal you had there, Sawyer. Holy shit! Did you manage to get a pic?”

Again, another nod. “Yes, sir. I did.” He reached for his shirt pocket pulling out his cellphone. A single thumb scrolled over the front until he found the picture of the bear he killed. He passed it over the desk with a wince. His side still ached a bit.

“Holy fuck. Now that’s what I call a homicide scene! Am I right?” The Sheriff yelled past Cody. “Hey Dave! Dave get your ass in here and come see what Tont…” The sheriff paused. “Come see what Cody done killed.”

Officer Dave Dilbeck was the senior detective on the homicide squad and the bigot who, when Cody originally joined the force, nicknamed him “Tonto.” Knowing which buttons to press on the young officer had been a sport for him since learning of Cody’s mixed race heritage.

The detective took the phone, gave it a glance and handed it back to Cody. “Nice. But I’ve seen bigger, Tonto. I hope you kept enough meat to share. I heard the reservation food shelter could use all the help they can get with Thanksgiving coming up. Your people do celebrate Thanksgiving? What am I saying? You invented it!”

Cody nodded in silent stoicism. He could feel the arteries in his broken arm throb as he sought to control his rising anger. “Unfortunately, I couldn’t recover the bear, broke my arm.” He answered pointing to the obvious.

“Too bad. That sucker could have fed the whole tribe.”

Cody with a deep breath ignored the snarky cock sucker, knowing he could floor him with a quick left.

Dilbeck would have welcomed the assault. He was already playing out in his mind how he would utilize his judo and put Cody down breaking the other arm in the process. But he held up his hands. “Easy, easy! Tonto! Kemosabe’s just pulling your chain, because you make it so easy.” He turned to the Chief. “Hey Chief, did you give him the good news?

Maxwell leaned forward with a smile. I was just about to. “Officer Sawyer, Cody, my boy, we’re promoting you to detective.” The chief pulled something from the drawer and covering it with his hand, placed it in front of Cody. With a shit eating smile he lifted his hand revealing a new badge. A homicide Detective’s badge. “Take it. You earned it.”

Cody took it in his good hand staring at the badge in silent surprise. “Thank you, sir.” Was all he could think to say. He had been waiting for this moment his whole career.

The chief leaned back. “Put it on. Put it on! Dave, help him with that.”

Dilbeck snapped the badge from Cody’s hand. “Stand up, Tonto. Let me help you with that.”

Cody shot up. “I can do it.”

“Relax, Sawyer. I’m just bustin’ your biscuits. Let me help you.” He removed the Sherriff’s badge and looked Cody in the eye as he pinned on the new badge with just the ghost of a sneer.

“Just think, No more ticket writing, no more jay walkers to contend with. No more domestic disturbances to answer to. No more reservation riff-raff. You’re moving up to homicide.” Dilbeck handed him the old badge. “You’re playing with the big boys now.” Dilbeck patted Cody’s bad shoulder.

Maxwell added, “That’s right, and it means a pay raise and your own office. You’re welcome to start when your arm fully heals.”

Cody pocketed his old badge. “Thank you sir, I prefer to start right away or as soon as possible.”

Dave shrugged. “See, didn’t I tell you he’d be happy. This was a much better choice than Nate or Tony. He’s going to work out fine.”

The chief agreed then pointed out, “Well, you can’t go out in the field, you can’t even use a gun.”

Dilbeck interjected. “Hell, Travis, set him up in Bagley’s office. We could use a new Milkman.”

Cody winced. The nickname “Milkman” was a term of derision for whoever ran the Cold Case Division at the sheriff’s department. The name came from an apparent ineffective ad campaign back in the late 70’s to help find missing children. In those days photos of missing children would be printed on the sides of milk cartons to publicize the many child disappearance cases. This was long before The Center for Missing and Exploited Children existed or Amber alerts flashed on freeways. It was a nation wide cause whose results were questionable due to the fact no one kept verifiable data on the program. What it did manage to do was scare the beejesus out of kids scarfing down their Frosted Flakes at the breakfast table. It also fueled the fear known as “stranger danger” as some children believed they too might be abducted. The program was phased out over time due to a number of factors including most photos used were disproportionately of white kids even though children of color made up a larger percentage of missing kids. That and over saturation; people got used to seeing them and no longer looked closely at the photos. For all the awareness the program raised for child abductions, the success rate was anemic at best.

Detective Frank Bagley ran the CCD. Cody knew of Bagley’s reputation and how they called him “The Sour Milkman.” Cody wanted nothing to do with that department. His goal was to work on current homicides and what he considered to be a true detective.

He protested. “The Cold Case Office? The CCD’s Bagley’s turf. I’d prefer working upstairs with the other detectives.”

“First of all, Bagley is retiring. His prostate and his diabetes insisted and he’s in no place to argue with either. He’s the reason you are being advanced to begin with.” The Chief explained it as if it should be common sense. He continued, “Frank Bagley’s retirement opened up a vacancy. The Mayor and the city council wanted us to fill the position with… with…”

Dilbeck assisted. “With someone from our ranks who is qualified. You fit the bill, Tonto.”

“You see son? You’ve been putting in for a promotion for three years now. Well, Cody--Hunter extraordinaire, your prey awaits you. Let the hunt begin.”

Cody knew he was being handed a shovel of bullshit. No one wanted to work the cold case department. Not only could he read a trail, he could read the room and knew there was no point in protesting. After an awkward pause, they shook hands. Dilbeck made sure to pat him on his bad shoulder again and wish him luck. The detective started to leave and paused. “Oh, and Tonto. Remember your place.”

“Excuse me?”

“Ground floor, “The Wilderness.” No need for you to be sticking your neck out upstairs or outside your wheelhouse, understand?”

Cody said,“More than you think.”

With that, Dilbeck left.

“Don’t let him bother you, kid. Now take your time, ease into your new role. Those cases aren’t going anywhere. Go and get settled.”

“Yes, sir.” More from military habit than respect, Cody saluted the chief.

The Chief, confused for a beat, returned it.

Detective Cody Sawyer, newly of the Aurora Sheriff’s Homicide Department, went to work.

Normally, the cold case department was where old detectives go to die. Frank Bagley had been put in charge when he blew a knee out and they had to find something for him to do. It stood that they’s accommodate the brother of Suzanna Bagley, who happened to be the chief’s wife, Suzanna Maxwell. They emptied out a storage space and rolled a desk into a windowless office and made Bagley head of the new department.

Up until then, Aurora’s cold cases gathered dust in the basement while serving as a place to hide or nap on the hotter afternoons. Eight boxes stacked four on a side, made for a half decent makeshift cubbyhole. If you went to Bagley’s office and he wasn’t there, just stand quiet for a minute and you were guaranteed to hear his snoring rise from behind the boxes.

Bagley himself was a piece of work. A good fifty pounds overweight for his 5’7” frame, his cherubic face housed two chipmunk teeth in a perpetual open mouth. His brown, rarely combed curly hair shoved under a brown fedora matched the brown corduroy suit which matched the dull brown of his office door. The rat grey tie was hardly noticed other than being stained by meals long forgotten. He said he wore the hat to shield the sun from his face. He had a bit of skin cancer removed from the bridge of his nose and was quick to warn of the dangers of solar radiation and was on the constant look out for any new moles whether they were on his body or yours, instigating a lecture on the proper SPF to use. It was like talking to a Born Again vegan. Picture a baby rhino dressed in a cheap brown suit wearing a cheap brown fedora and it gives you a sense of how Bagley might look anthropomorphized.

As far as his approach to homicide investigation? The fat man approached his job the same way he approached his dry cleaning; rarely. In the last five years, one cold case was solved, if you can actually call it that. The body of a local prostitute missing since ’06 was found in a fertilizer drum after the possessions of a local farmer foreclosed property was auctioned off. Dilbeck joked that for a 40 dollar winning bid the dead whore earned twice as much as her going rate. Dilbeck was a fount of humor. It was a good old boys club to which Cody was a member in name only and so far, that was fine with him.

Da-Da-Da-Dum

Ludwig van Beethoven’s Symphony No.5 in C minor, Op.67, is an iconic composition of classical music. It resounds as the keystone in the wide arch of Western musical classics. It was written when Beethoven was already hard of hearing and suffered tinnitus. His hearing had begun deteriorating in 1798 and within 16 years he was totally deaf. In 1802, he wrote to a friend, "I want to grasp fate at the throat — it shouldn't bring me down completely."

The opening four bars of the 1st Movement set a new bar (or, a new set of four of them) that introduced the so-called "Schicksals-Sinfonie" (Fate Symphony). Most musicologists consider this four-bar opening strike as a knock on the door, or the "fate motif." That is, the door of Fate, whether you wish to open it or not.

The GGGF (played short-short-short-LONG), played and then repeated, a step lower. Thus, it is foreboding, ominous, and a hint of the danger ahead. GGGF is what we hear as we enter a forest of dread. Yet, as cautionary as they sound, we proceed.

Fate Knocking or V for Victory?

French conductor Francois-Xavier Roth directed his orchestra to interpret it as a "revolutionary" work:

"The wind, the storm that blows through this work, really comes from these new philosophical aspects of the French Revolution and explodes in the finale," Roth has said. As such, its end in an exploding C major is played — not as finalizing a "symphony of fate," but as a "chant de victoire."

Vive la France!

The French, therefore, adopted Beethoven's 5th Symphony as a symbol of solidarity during resistance. During the war, French artist and designer, Maurice Van Moppès, wrote a collection of 25 songs — derisive parodies — mocking the German occupation. Published as "BBC Songs" in 1944, the back cover read: "The Songs you have heard on the radio (from London) are brought to you by your friends in the RAF." These booklets were dropped over occupied France by Royal Air Force planes.

In 1941, during the unrelenting attacks on London during the German blitz, Moppès' lyrics to the opening bars of Beethoven's 5th were "La chanson des V" (The Song of V). Broadcast on Radio-Londres on June 1, 1944, the Allied forces were sending their first warnings for France to prepare for their attack.

The opening motif of Beethoven's 5th Symphony became a powerful WWII symbol for the Allies. Coincidentally, the short-short-short-long pattern was also Morse code for the letter, "V," the acknowledged letter symbol for victory made famous by Winston Churchill's salutation.

And so, it is ironic that a German piece, a piece of very famous German music, became a percussive strain of comfort and confidence for British troops during the Blitz. Usurping German music as a battlecry was a snarky bravado in the Allies' waging war against their enemies.

As it turns out, Beethoven championed personal liberty, himself. He turned his back on personal gain in exchange for conscience when he renounced Napoleon who named himself Emperor of France. Thus ended his relationship with benefactors, such as aristocratic patron, Napoleon's brother Jerome Bonaparte, who supported him for most of his life. Following his conscience, Beethoven's music became synonymous with resistance to dictatorships.

Enter, a Guy Named Harry

Harry Crosby, the proverbial American Tom, Dick, or Harry, moved by the same moral imperative as had inspired many young people, enlisted one week after the Pearl Harbor “Day of Infamy.” Seventeen months later, he began what would end up being 37 missions over Europe as a B-17 navigator in the 100th Bomb Group of the Eighth Air Force. In August of 1944, Harry attended the usual morning briefing centered on their next targets. Such briefing consisted of primary ("first choice") targets, and if weather or other circumstances interfered, secondary and tertiary targets were offered the fliers.

Once Harry took off in his B-17 "Flying Fortress" and approached his primary target, a thick blanket of clouds made it inaccessible. Then, the secondary and tertiary targets washed out, too.

What now?

By protocol, an armed and ready Flying Fortress was a terrible thing to waste. Any soon-to-be failed mission was obliged to salvage something — anything — by looking for a "target of opportunity." Such a "T.O." could be a city, railroad yard, airport, or anything else where bombing it could advance the war effort. The city of Bonn qualified.

Flashback: the Night Before

The night before his mission, Harry was relaxing like he usually did, by listening to music on the RCA victrola in his barracks. On this night, the recording he had listened to was Beethoven’s 5th Symphony. He was struck by its powerful sonic 4-note introduction. Da-da-da-dum! Of course, Beethovem's genius was as evident then as it is now, from the get-go, with Fate knocking at the door or, alternatively, the V for victory sounding for the hopeful vanquishing of the Axis.

He read the back of the sleeve for the record and was intrigued to read a little history about Ludwig von. As it turned out, Beethoven had been born in Bonn, Germany, in 1770. Harry found it ironic that he was tasked with bombing, if relegated to mere targets of opportunigy, the place where Beethoven had been born and educated. Also, and a bit disturbing, Bonn was a city of learning and of civilians — plenty of families and children, museums and schools.

Do not ask for whom Fate knocks... It knocks for you.

Music of the Spheres

Harry listened very carefully — to the music and the knocking. This wasn't German music, it was the world's music. Civilization's music. Human music. Music that was our's, their's, everyone's. Mucic that generates gravitational waves into the Universe.

He checked the weather. It didn't look good for his next day's mission. It didn't look good for the primary, secondary, or tertiary targets. He dreaded the thought of "targets of oppotunity," for they were fraught with miscalculation on the human scale of collateral damage. He indeed heard Fate knocking because the weather forecasted that Bonn’s was to face a fateful opening of a terrible door, if not it's being kicked in, the next morning.

Target of Opportunity

As anticipated, the primary target was a no-go. As were the secondary and the tertiary targets. His flying squadron eyed Bonn as the destination of choice. Harry was the leader, so it required his blessing. And whatever he decided the other 63 bombers would do, too. The GGGF was a guiding earworm for him.

“We can’t bomb Bonn,” Harry radioed to the rest of his wing. “That is where Beethoven went to school.”

It was as simple as that. Fate was turned away at the door, despite the V for Victory the knocking sounded. Crosby's B-17 and his other 63 bombers on the mission flew right over Bonn, many of them with their bomb doors open, yet with their bombs undropped.

The target of opportunity was changed to reachable military railroad yards in Ruhr whose bombing would constitute "the effort to advance the war effort." Certainly, it made more sense to Harry, at that fateful moment, than a city of learning, families, children, museums, and schools.

Thanks, Harry

The city of Bonn was chosen to be the capital of postwar West Germany for one reason only: it was the only major city of Germany not utterly destroyed by the bombs of B-17s. Bonn’s fate was set by Harry's not opening Bonn’s door as a target of opportunity.

As the capital of free West Germany, Bonn played pivotal roles in all of the postwar dramas that played out after V-E day in 1945, from the Berlin Airlift to the fall of the Iron Curtain through the dismantling of the Berlin Wall in 1989.

This (perhaps sentimental) story is not famous. There are no memorials or even a plaque of Harry in Bonn today. Yet, Harry's decision was a great gift, indeed, wrapped in a musical score with a pretty ribbon top tied by no one but Ludwig von Beethoven himself. The last major city of Germany to stand and function was a generous and unexpected present to the free world which led to the unification of a great nation that had been seduced by a madman. Fate and Victory, indeed, harmonized the night that Harry Crosby listened to Beethoven's 5th Symphony.

________________________

Based on the published article by Jim Blakely, MD, son of Everett Blakesly, pilot aboard Harry Crosby's B-17 bomber.

This is from one of many that Harry Crosby chronicled in his 1993 book, “A Wing and a Prayer,” based on his 37 missions on the “Flying Fortress” called the B-17. He is slated to be portrayed by Anthony Boyle in the miniseries, Masters of the Air, being developed by Tom Hanks and Steven Spielberg.

https://www.amazon.com/Wing-Prayer-Bloody-Eighth-Action/dp/B0C5481G4K/ref=sr_1_1?crid=1R3PCUKWOSKS2&keywords=a+wing+and+a+prayer+book+harry+crosby&qid=1701626053&sprefix=a+wing+and+a+pra%2Caps%2C81&sr=8-1

____________________

First movement of Beethoven's 5th Symphony: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I7AQeN-x_Xs

My father disappeared years before my coming of age without leaving a trace to his whereabouts. At that time, my regent gave me the keys to the entirety of my father’s estate. In the basement of his laboratory, I spent my formidable years remaining quiet and learning to unlock the secrets of his research. I encountered new words and ideas I dare not share with others, so as to provide clues to my intentions. Exhausting his notes, even by a cursory glance, would take years. A detailed examination may cost the entirety of my life. Daunting as that may seem, I stood affirmed in my resolve to succeed.

And succeed I did.

In a mere eight years, I not only translated, but comprehended 90% of my father’s manuscripts. He called his invention, the Forget Me Not. Its purpose was singular. The wearer could relive any pleasurable experience from his past as if experiencing it for the very first time. The Forget Me Not (FMN) functions as follows:

The device maps the user’s brain (while the user thinks about the memory) to discover the exact location of the experience.

The device stores the memory exactly as the user remembers it. The storage device digitizes all five senses and the user’s perception. The memory capacity is greater than normal computers by a million fold.

Upon activation, the FMN temporarily blocks the synaptic pathways that permit the user to forget the experience.

Then the FMN downloads the memory, experience, and perception back to the user.

The machine may record the entire experience for posterity and repeat it as often as necessary.

With my increased time in the lab, I began to lose track of the day-to-day affairs of the estate. Offering the position to the only person I knew would accept, I found my regent and made the proposition. As if he never forfeited his previous occupation, my regent agreed to my terms. In doing so, I continued my research and my regent found his new employer mostly absent. Thus, both parties returned to what they did best.

Two more years of work and I began my first trial run. Using no other than myself, I set the FMN to scan and copy only. I thought of eating my first ice cream cone. The FMN took only three minutes to scan and three milliseconds to copy. If I remained attached to the FMN, I might be experiencing that memory exactly as I did as a child. I decided to postpone that decision until the end of the week.

Unusual to my normal routine, I began a brief audit of the household books. My regent did his due diligence and kept them accurate and timely. I did not find any discrepancies (the regent saved receipts), but I did find the food budget larger by half than what I would budget. I made a mental note to speak to him of this at a later date.

By the onset of the upcoming auspicious week, I made arrangements not to be disturbed for the duration of the day. I was both curious and determined to activate the FMN for a full scale test. The previous night, I chose my last memory of my father. That day, that beautiful sunny day, we walked to the park together to watch the sunset. He held my hand as we climbed a small hill.

With no distractions, nor words, we saw the sunset on an amazing day. I felt warm. I felt happy. Most of all, I felt my father’s love for me. No day since has rivaled that day. Most likely, no day hence will.

D-Day came and I went to the lab to greet destiny. I sat in the chair and attached the FMN. I set the control to automatic before I sat back and let the entire program run its course. Within seconds, I saw the Sun from that day. I felt my father’s hand. His stride was larger than mine. To compensate, I had to trot. I felt my pulse increase to accommodate. I even felt a bead or two or sweat run down my forehead. I kept the lab at 62 degrees, but my memory swore it was 92 degrees. As if on cue, I saw growing shadows of other park patrons as they moved toward home. I even smelled the lingering odor of my father’s aftershave. The Sun set on time. The sky turned from orange to red to dark. My father squeezed my hand when it was time to go. The FMN worked beyond my wildest expectations. If I could do it all over again, I would.

That day, that beautiful sunny day, we walked to the park together to watch the sunset. He held my hand as we climbed a small hill. With no distractions, nor words, we saw the sunset on an amazing day. I felt warm. I felt happy. Most of all, I felt my father’s love for me. No day since has rivaled that day. Most likely, no day hence will.

D-Day came and I went to the lab to greet destiny. I sat in the chair and attached the FMN. I set the control to automatic before I sat back and let the entire program run its course. Within seconds, I saw the Sun from that day. I felt my father’s hand. His stride was larger than mine. To compensate, I had to trot. I felt my pulse increase to accommodate. I even felt a bead or two or sweat run down my forehead. I kept the lab at 62 degrees, but my memory swore it was 92 degrees. As if on cue, I saw growing shadows of other park patrons as they moved toward home. I even smelled the lingering odor of my father’s aftershave. The Sun set on time. The sky turned from orange to red to dark. My father squeezed my hand when it was time to go. The FMN worked beyond my wildest expectations. If I could do it all over again, I would.

That day, that beautiful sunny day, we walked to the park together to watch the sunset. He held my hand as we climbed a small hill. With no distractions, nor words, we saw the sunset on an amazing day. I felt warm. I felt happy. Most of all, I felt my father’s love for me. No day since has rivaled that day. Most likely, no day hence will.

The regent called the doctor to move my shell of a body adjacent to my father’s in the laboratory alcove repurposed for an occupancy of two. He made a mental note to increase the food budget by another half again as he locked the laboratory, possibly for the last time.

I ache for the touch of your skin on my skin

The gentle pressing of your palms upon my breasts

Please kiss me softly, hold back but never to taunt me, just to let me rest before you begin once again

Take me to the beach at sunset and toss me down onto the shore

Tug your fingers through my hair and bite my lips once more

I need a little connection, to feel the beat of your heart against mine

I’m starving, darling

I need you like water, like a wanderer needs a river on a summer night

Because I’ve been lost for years in a lonely desert, with nothing to fasten me to life

Tell me, dear, would you taste the salt on my tongue?

Would you dig your fingernails into my shoulder or the flesh in between my ribs and collarbone?

Would you hold me so I don’t sink into the dirt?

So I don’t float away, untethered from earth?

Please. Stay.

Take your hand in mine and trace the curve of my arm, the crook of my elbow, the fragile skin between my forefinger and thumb.

Wait with me for sunrise to arrive, peaceful and sweet and clean and new.