The_Amazing_Mr._Howard (34 page)

He continued up the beach. A breeze coming off the water warmed the back of his neck. The sound of someone crying carried above the crashing waves. He went to investigate. A young woman in a white evening dress sat on the sand. She leaned onto her knees as she sobbed. “Are you all right?”

She looked up at him with glossy wet eyes. “Do I seem all right?”

Early twenties, five foot six, one hundred and twenty pounds, muscular calves, she could be a new lover or something more, a giver of life.

“No, of course you are not all right. How stupid of me to ask.” He shoved his hands inside his pockets and stared past her at the city lights. “This is a beautiful night for crying, yes?”

She stopped sniffling. “What?”

He gave her a smile. “I mean, if you are going to be crying, you could not find a better place, or more perfect evening. The moon, the ocean, a warm wind on your face, yes, you have picked a good night to cry.”

“Thanks… I guess.” She looked at him as if he was crazy.

“My name is Mr. Howard,” he said, extending his hand. She just stared without offering her own. He pulled his hand back and smoothed the front of his shirt. “I am a retired professor. What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a professional crier, can’t you tell?”

“I see. Based on your performance tonight, I believe you must be quite good at your job. You must be a millionaire.”

A smile flashed over her mouth. “You’re a nut.”

“Some might say that.” He breathed in the salty tang of the sea. “You are having boyfriend trouble, yes?”

“Don’s a jerk.”

“I have known many Dons and all of them qualified as jerks.”

She smiled again. “Thanks.” She took a deep breath and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “I guess he’s not worth crying over.”

“Is any man worth crying over?”

“None that I’ve met.”

“May I ask your name?”

She looked up at him. “Season.”

“Season is a most unusual name. Are you part of the Phoenix family?”

She blinked several times.

“You know, River, Leaf… it means nothing to you?”

“Sorry.”

“I suppose they were a little before your time.” He wiggled his toes deeper into the sand. “Tell me, Season, do you plan on spending the night here, alone with the moon and your tears?”

She chewed her lip as she thought. “I can’t go back to the apartment. Not tonight.”

“I see. Then you should join me at my condo for a drink. I live right down the beach.” He pointed to distant lights.

“I appreciate the offer, but I think I’ll pass.”

“You are afraid, which is understandable. A beautiful young woman cannot be too careful in this cruel world of ours.”

“Thanks for understanding.”

“But the real question is, are you safer alone on this beach or back at my condo?”

She sighed. “I don’t know. I’m so confused right now.”

He held out a hand. “Look at me, I am an old man. How dangerous can I be?”

She stared at his hand several seconds before accepting it. “What the hell, anything beats sitting out here alone.”

He helped her stand, a smile on his face as her warmth transferred to him. They started down the beach toward his place. “Tell me, Season, do you like Rachmaninoff? I find his music inspiring.”

“I’m not familiar with his music.”

“Is that right? Then you must tell me what kind of music you enjoy. I want to know everything about you.”

The End

This book would not have been possible without the help and support from many people. I would like to thank my critique group, the Rain-Tree Writers, Patricia Stoltey, Brian Kaufman, April Moore, Beverly Marquart, and Laura Powers for their keen insights and observations. Dr. Patrick Allen, Larimer County Medical Examiner, who assisted me with questions regarding body decomposition and autopsies. Dr. Boris C. Kondratieff, Professor of Entomology, Colorado State University, who helped with Forensic Entomology questions. My family, wife, Monika, daughters, Sarah, Michelle, Amanda, and Rebecca, and my parents, Paul and Jan Harmon, provided the love and encouragement I needed to get this done. I would also like to thank Christopher Payne of JournalStone for taking a chance on me, and Russ Thompson of JournalStone for his support and guidance.

Kenneth W. Harmon is a retired police officer who lives in Fort Collins, Colorado with his wife and daughters. His previous publishing credits include a nonfiction book and numerous short stories. He has been a finalist for the Pikes Peak Writers Paul Gillette Memorial Award and the Pacific Northwest Writers Association Zola Award. You can learn more about Kenneth at www.kennethwharmonauthor.com