Midnight Hours, submission chapters

Midnight Hours: Chapter 1

Chapter one
the present

         The man positioned his power chair at the end of the parallel bars in the therapy room. Over the past months, those bars had become an enemy that could not be conquered, but which created agony and despair. He glared at his enemy as they silently waited to conquer him again. An orderly in white waited beside the left side of the bars.

         “Ready, Martin?” the therapist asked from where he stood behind the chair.

         Martin Rogers scowled as he struggled to his feet, pushing against the arms of the chair. By the time he stood gripping each bar, his face dripped with perspiration, and he could smell his own sweat and fear. A bolt of pain shot from both of his legs into his back.

         “Aggghh!” he groaned. His legs trembled with the stress and pain. “I don’t know if I can do this,” he muttered between clenched teeth.

         “Yes, you can,” the therapist answered him. “Now, move your right foot forward.” The man, standing close behind Martin, pushed his foot against his patient’s right heel.

         Swallowing the curse that formed in his throat, Martin slid his right foot forward. His knuckles turned white from the pressure of his fists grasping the bars. Shuffle by shuffle, moan by moan, he moved toward the end of the bars, the therapist relentlessly pushing him forward. Finally, Martin collapsed into the power chair waiting for him, moved there by the orderly, the torture finished for another day.

         The discouraged man stared out of the van window as his mother drove him home from the rehabilitation center. As usual, they made the trip in silence. He endured her help as she brought the chair from the rear of the van to the door so that he could move from the car seat to the power chair seat. He pushed the control forward to wheel from his parents’ drive next door to the front door of his house.

         The whish of the power chair’s wheels on the carpet and the low hum of the computer created the only sounds in the room as Martin positioned himself at the desk. He closed his eyes before laying his fingers on the keys to type in the code which would connect him to the refuge he so needed.

         “Martin.” His mother’s voice called him back. “I’ll be back in about an hour with your dinner.”

          “Mom, I wish . . . I'm thirty-five years old.” He paused, taking a deep breath.

         “I know how old you are, and it doesn’t matter.” The light weight of her hand on his shoulder let him sense her concern as much as her words. “I have to cook for your dad and me. What’s one more plate? And walking it next door doesn’t take much effort.”

         The dark-haired man dropped his head. “I know, Mom, but you’re doing too much."

         “Too much?” She jerked her hand back when she answered, the sharp note in his mother’s voice causing Martin to lift his head and his eyes to search her face. “Too much? I watch my only remaining son nearly die from a madman’s bullet, and you think fixing a plate of food is too much?”

         Martin grasped her hand in his, but she snatched it away. “You think I’m doing too much. . . after watching you struggle to get the use of your legs back?”

         “Mom, please...”

         Sara Rogers glared at her son, at his pale and drawn face. Hysteria echoed in her words. “You worry about me doing too much? Why?”

         “Mom, please.” Martin’s arm loosely encircled his mother’s waist. “Mom, I’m so sorry.”

         With a sniff, Sara forced back the tears trying to overflow. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . . break down. I’m just,” she sighed, “so glad you’re alive.”

         “I am, too, Mom.” His sigh echoed hers. “I, uh.” He blew a stream of air through his pursed lips. “I have a hard time with you and Dad doing so much for me.”

         With another sniff, Sara half-snorted, “So what’s new? You never want anyone’s help, never have.” She shook her head. “I’m surprised you keep a partner on the job.”

         “Because the department says I have to have a partner,” he mumbled before adding, “I know, Mom.” Martin shrugged. “I can’t help it. I want to be the one helping, not the other way around.”

         “Humph! Like you gave up law school to help Tina and the kids. Well, it’s time you learned how to accept help when you need it.”

         As he grinned, Martin admitted, “I guess you’re right, but it sure is hard.”

         “Yes, accepting help is hard for some people, but you need to realize that giving can’t always go one direction. You need to allow others the blessing of giving to you.”

         “Huh, some blessing.” Martin turned to stare at the screen. “I’ve been angry and hateful and . . .” His mother’s hand squeezing his shoulder stopped his flow of words.

         “My word, Martin! You’re in pain and frustrated and scared.” She removed her hand. “Each time you come back from therapy, you hide in that computer. I know you fight having to take pain pills. I watch you struggle to do more and more for yourself each day.” Sara raised her eyes toward the ceiling. “Dear God, pour some sense in my son’s head.”

         A laugh erupted from her son. “You always do that. When you can’t think of what to say, you ask God to do the job for you.”

         “Ah, but it made you laugh, didn’t it.” She patted his shoulder. “You chat with your online friends, and I’ll go fix supper. I’ll have your dad bring yours to you. Maybe he can talk some sense into you.”

         After his mother left, Martin finished logging onto the poker site where he spent hours while fighting the pain that zapped his back and legs. Once connected to the site each night, he talked to others online, in the shorthand used for chatting. The visits with friends and acquaintances, on the scroll at the bottom of the screen while playing a few hands of poker, helped pass the time until midnight when “she” came on line.

         “Hey, Frank,” Using his handle, Copper, he typed to the man who had introduced him to the site and was one of the few not using a pseudonym. “How u doing?” Then, he let his eyes do the listening as messages shifted quickly between people on the scroll.

Frank: ok and u? back any better?
Copper: a little.
Frank: ok, I’ll drop it.
BigGuy: another therapy session?
Copper: Yep. how are you, BG?
BigGuy: fine ready for the weekend. wish u could join us for a fishing trip.
Copper: me, too.

         As Martin typed the words, he flinched. Yeah, he thought, wish I could.

Frank: hey why don’t we get together for a meal or something?
Copper: know what a hassle that would be?
BigGuy: we get take-out come to ur place.

         Martin pressed his aching spine against the back of the padded seat. Yeah, I know these guys, should since we’ve been friends since we were in the academy together, but, nah, don’t want to see them pity me. He returned his fingers to the keyboard.

Copper: sorry, just not up to it yet. when I am, u’ll be first to know.
Frank: see Midnight online yet? know we’ll lose ya, Copper, to a private game when she comes.

         BigGuy seemed to snort over the Internet as he typed “hours to midnight yet. the lady doesn’t appear till then.”

Copper: some time from now and another subject all together. Frank how’s ur book going?
Frank: not going. How’s yours?

         For the next hour, Martin chatted with Frank and BigGuy and others that entered and left the scroll. When he heard his dad at the door with his dinner, he folded his hand in the game and typed, “BBL,” which meant “be back later.”

         “Thanks, Dad.” Martin wheeled himself to the dining room where his father sat the tray with his meal. “Can you stay a bit, visit?”

         “Brought enough for both of us, if you don’t mind me joining you.” The silver-haired man went to the kitchen, taking two sets of plates, glasses, and flatware from their locations before returning to the table.

         Martin removed the covered bowls, platters, and pitcher from the tray before setting it to one side. “Ummm, smells good. Love Mom’s meatloaf. She better be careful. I won’t want to go back to my own cooking.” He glanced at his dad’s grin. “Don’t you dare tell her. She’ll never let me do for myself.”

         Fred Rogers chuckled as he helped himself to the salad. “She just likes doing for people, son, especially those she loves.” He yanked his hand to his chest.

         “Dad!” Martin pushed himself half from his chair. “Your heart?”

         “No, no, Martin. Didn’t mean to scare you. I just remembered the letter from Tina. Your mother would have my hide if I forgot to give it to you.” The older man pulled an envelope from his shirt pocket, handing it across the corner of the table to his younger son.

         “Don’t do that. You did scare me, half to death.” Martin took the envelope and removed the letter written in a delicate handwriting.

         “Relax. It’s been nearly ten years since my heart attack, and over seven since I’ve had any trouble. Doc says I’ll be okay if I still behave.” Fred shook his head. “You worry as much as your mom. A man doesn’t stand a chance.”

         “Huh?” Martin glanced up from the letter in his hand. “What did you say, Dad?”

         “Nothing, not a thing,” the older man half smiled. “Finding Tina’s news interesting?”

         “Yeah.” He frowned. “She and Ash have been married, what, five years?”

         “Yep, about that.” Fred placed his fork on the table. “It’s going to be strange having her a momma to a baby not our grandchild.”

         “Dad, you and Mom have been like Tina’s parents since before she and Wayne got married. You’ll be this baby’s grandpa as much as you are little Wayne’s, Tracy’s, or Misty’s.” He laid the letter beside his plate. “Guess we need to stop calling him ‘little’ Wayne. The kid’s tall as I am. Man, Wayne would be proud of how his kids are turning out.”

         Fred raised the napkin from the table to wipe his eyes. “Yes, he would.”

         “I’m sorry, Dad. I still miss him, too.” Gray-blue eyes met gray-blue eyes in understanding.

         Clearing his throat, the older Rogers nodded briskly. “Well, we need to finish up before your mother comes looking for me. I promised to take her to a movie.”

         As soon as his dad left with the nearly empty dishes, Martin returned to the site. He swallowed two pain pills as he played a few more hands of cards and visited with others hiding behind their masks of handles and user names. Finally, two minutes after midnight, the name he waited to see appeared.

Midnight: hi handsome.
Copper: hi beautiful. how are u tonight? Oh, great, great dialogue, Rogers.
Midnight: Ready to spend time with my fav guy.
Kilee: Copper, want me to bring u luck? be glad to.
Midnight: he doesn’t need any more luck, especially from u.
Midnight: going to be leaving the game, to go with me.
Copper: I’m ready to follow u wherever u want me to go.

         Martin grimaced as he realized that he wasn’t just typing words, but that he had half believed them until now. What happened? How did she get to me like this? he wondered as the couple entered a private game, “locking” others out.

Midnight: how have u been, sugar? ur therapy session go ok?
Copper: bout the same, Norma. don’t talk about that.
Midnight: wish u wouldnt call me Norma.
Copper: why? it’s ur name.
Midnight: i don’t like it. now, want to know everything. want to know all that happens to u, makes me feel part of ur life.

         In his mind, their talk became more like real conversation, leaving the form of the chat and becoming more like paragraphs in a letter. “Okay, still don’t see any improvement. I’m stuck in this chair.” The frustration and embarrassment didn’t show in the typed words, but they twisted his gut.

         “So sorry, baby. We can still have some fun, when we finally meet. I know we can.”

         “Some fun, Midnight, I can’t do anything for myself!” He hit the keys hard enough that his finger tips felt the pounding. “And, why won’t you give me your address or phone number. You know nearly everything about me.” Martin frowned as he realized she didn’t know everything. She didn’t know he was a homicide detective, had been until the bullet took away his legs.

         "I just can’t, yet. Please be patient, Martin. I really want to.” She paused. “I do want to, but I can’t. Don’t be mad at me, please, sugar.”

         “How long have we been meeting and chatting, Norma?”

         “I don’t know offhand, sugar, but I feel as if I’ve known you forever. You have found your way into my heart.”

         “I do know. For over four months, we have been going off by ourselves. For one month we visited in the lounge and on the scroll. That’s over five months.” Martin clenched his teeth. “It took three months before you would tell me your name. There’s nothing wrong with your name.”

         “I’m sorry, Martin. I just don’t like my name. Please forgive me.”

         “Your name is fine. Norma Fields is a nice name, but this isn’t about your name. It’s about trust. Midnight, I can’t take you not trusting me. Not any more."

         “You can’t be serious. Just because I won’t tell you my address or my phone number?”

         “Or anything else about yourself, what you do for a living -- not one thing.” He took a deep breath before typing, “I think this will be the last time we meet.”

         “No, please, Martin. You can’t mean that.”

         “Goodbye, Norma.”

         “No, wait. Wait. I’ll tell you tomorrow when we meet. Will that be okay?”

         “Norma . . .”

         “Please at least call me Midnight.”

         “What in the -- Okay, Midnight, what difference does telling me tonight or tomorrow night make?”

         “I don’t know. It just does. Please, Martin?”

         Martin stared at the screen for several seconds. What is wrong with this picture? he thought. This woman doesn’t make a bit of sense. Okay, I’m bored sitting in this chair. Okay, I let her lead me around by my, uh, well. Uh-uh, no more. He tapped his finger on the mouse. But, she’s a mystery. I like and solve mysteries, so why not go along? If this doesn’t lead anywhere further, so what? Got nothing to lose.

         He quickly typed, “Sure, why not. Tomorrow. Fine.”

         “What if I sent you a photo? Would that make things better?”

         “And how long do I wait for that? A year or two years?”

         “No, silly, I’ll email an attachment -- now.”

         With a quirked eyebrow, Martin studied the words in front of him. Do I really seem that dumb? Don’t answer that, Rogers. I sure have been. Bet that picture will bug my eyes. “Sure, send it,” he typed.

         A few minutes later, Martin stared at the picture on his screen. Giving a soundless whistle, he clicked the printer icon at the top of the Internet page. Man, oh, man, oh . . . sh . . . yep, bug my eyes. I can’t believe . . . The same picture? The sexy pose with the raven-haired beauty spread across a sofa was provocative but didn’t hide the beauty of the woman posing. He stared at the screen. The conversation returned to regular chat chatter as his mind finished returning to normal.

Midnight: u get it?
Copper: sure did. this u?
Midnight: yes u like it?
Copper: an understatement, big time.
Midnight: feel better?

         Martin shook his head. This gal is good, but, man, how did I get so involved?

Midnight: Martin, r u still there?

         The message flashing across the screen brought his attention back to the business at hand.

Copper: still here still looking.
Midnight: thought that would get ur attention.
(The laughing icon hee-hawed at the end of the sentence.)
Copper: O did that. Look i took some pills and feel the results. need to say goodnight.
Midnight: What’s wrong, lover? angry with me?
Copper: to be honest, a bit disappointed. think ur playing with me, don’t like being played for a fool.
Midnight: No im not. promise. Ur no fool, i know it. im not playing, either.
Copper: Yeah, sure.
Midnight: ok, i’ll tell you where i live. Oklahoma City, just off the Northwest Expressway. There. Happy?
Copper: hey, u don’t need to be angry. wanting to know is normal. u wanted to know about me.
Midnight: i know. sorry. forgive me? please?

         All’s fair in love and war, Martin thought as he typed.

Copper: sure. serious about the pain pills, though. need to get to bed before i fall over.
Midnight: ok lover. see you tomorrow night?
Copper: i’ll be here. night, Midnight.

         But, he thought, I don't think our 'conversations' will ever seem real to me again.

Midnight: night. don’t be mad at me. (Midnight has logged off.)

         Martin sat frowning at the monitor for a moment before snatching up the phone beside the computer and punching in a number. As the phone rang in his ear, he tried to decide what had aroused his suspicions, when his detective instincts had awakened and his stupidity had disappeared.

         I got shot in the back, not in the head, but my back and legs work better than my head has been. Sh...

         “Yeah!” The voice in his ear barked.

         “Sorry to bother you so late, Kyle, but could you and Frank come by before your shift starts tomorrow?”

         “Sure,” Kyle Stone, alias BigGuy, agreed. “I’ll bring breakfast. We’ll be there about seven.” He chuckled. “Ole Frank ain’t gonna like me waking him up early in the morning. Uh, after while.”

         “Well, tell him he was right about something being wrong about Midnight, and he’ll wake up bright and sunny.”

         “Huh, you’re joking. You’re out of lust already?”

         “Wait till you get here, then I’ll tell you. And, make sure they don’t put cheese on my egg and bacon biscuit. Now, get to sleep.”

         “Get to . . . you . . .” Kyle sputtered as Martin hung up the phone.

         Less than five hours later, the ringing of the doorbell over and over brought Martin awake. Groaning and moaning, he pulled himself into the power chair and sent it whirling from the bedroom toward the front door. Throwing the door open, he demanded, “What are you trying to do, wake up the whole block?”

         “No, just wanted you to come open this door so we could eat,” Kyle answered as he passed by with two sacks, ducking his head to miss the doorframe.

         “Get me out of bed at this ungodly hour and aren’t even up when we get here,” the thin, wiry man behind Kyle grumbled as he lightly punched Martin’s shoulder with the fist not filled with another sack. “How you doing anyway?”

         “Uh, do come in,” Martin waved his hand, in an exaggerated parody of a host, toward the living room. “Make yourselves at home.”

         “Already have,” Kyle called from where he sat on the sofa, emptying the sacks on the coffee table in front of him. “Hurry up, I’m starving.”

         “You’re always starving,” Frank Thomas retorted as he joined Kyle and placed his sack on the table.

         Martin rolled up to the opposite side and reached for a cup of coffee. “Ah. . .” He inhaled the first sip. “Needed that.”

         “Okay, you’ve had your first drink for the morning, now talk.” Frank stuffed a bite of sausage in his mouth, his blue eyes questioning behind rimless glasses.

          “I’ll be right back, want to show you something.” Grabbing his biscuit sandwich, Martin turned his chair to the computer desk in the corner. He took the printed photo and returned to the other men. After he handed the print to Frank, he swigged some more coffee. “Take a look at that.”

         Frank gave a low whistle. “That’s some woman.”

         “Hey, she looks familiar.” Kyle laid his sandwich down on the table. “I’ve seen this woman before. That face is familiar, very familiar.”

         “That’s what Midnight sent me last night, after asking if I wanted to see a photo of her.”

         “No wonder men are panting after her,” Frank commented. “If I had known she looked like this, I would have, too.”

         “What do you mean ‘men’ are panting after her?” Martin asked.

         Frank’s eyes rose from the picture. “Hey, I didn’t mean anything. If she’s your lady. . .”

         “She’s not my lady, as you put it: Don’t want her, but what did you mean?” Martin’s voice sharpened.

         “You guys know I’ve been on the site a lot longer than you.”

         “Yes, Frank, we know. What’s that got to do with anything?” Kyle shook his head as he stared at his partner.

         “Just that I’ve heard talk about her over the past year or so. She has taken up with several men during that time.” He looked at the two men staring at him. “What? What was I supposed to say?” The detective set his coffee on the table. “Look, Martin, she gave you an interest in living. I wasn’t about to interfere.” He shrugged. “I figured when you started feeling more yourself you would see through her.”

         “All right. No problem.” Martin took a swallow of coffee. “I was rather off for a bit. Anyway, this photo woke me up completely.”

         “It would me, too. Man, what a babe. Wish I could remember where I’ve seen that face before.” Kyle rubbed his fingers over his forehead while staring at the photo in his hand.

         “I know where I’ve seen it before.” Martin took the print back from his friend. “Either of you remember the paraplegic who went off the balcony of the Regency downtown?”

         Frank shook his head, but Kyle answered, “Oh, yeah, you guys in homicide ended up with that one because no one could figure out how he got over the railing.” He stroked his chin. “But, I haven’t heard any more about the case since immediately after.”

         “That’s right, for a reason. One thing few people know is he had a copy of this picture folded in his pocket.” Laying the photo on the table, Martin tapped his index finger on the face. “This very picture.”

         “What! You’re kidding, right?” Frank questioned. “Martin’s involved with a woman tied to a murder?”

         With a chuckle Martin replied, “Well, not involved -- yet.”

         “What in hell do you mean -- yet?” Kyle’s question echoed in the room as he and Frank studied Martin’s face.

         Martin roared with laughter. “That’s great! The . . . looks on . . . your faces!”

         “You are joking, aren’t you, Martin?” Frank grabbed the picture from the table to shake it in his friend’s face. “You really aren’t thinking about getting involved with this. Man, you’re crazy!”

         “No, not crazy, but I want to solve that case. This is the first break we’ve had.” He whirled his chair around and rolled to his desk. “Look at this. After I called you early this morning, Kyle, I tried doing some research online. Midnight says her name is Norma Fields and that she lives in OKC off Northwest Expressway. I couldn’t find any record of anyone by that name in the state matching her probable age.”

         “Okay, Martin, what do you want us to do?” Frank asked from where he and Kyle stood behind the power chair.

         “And what are you planning on doing?” the other detective asked Martin.

         Twisting his body to look over his shoulder, Martin answered, “Even though you’re not in the homicide division, Captain Young will show you any files they have. Would one of you see if any other cases match this one, maybe written off as suicide or accident? Then . . .”

         “Hey, man!” Kyle interrupted. “Look at how you’re sitting, and ... and not screaming.”

         “I’ll be . . .” Martin pivoted to face the desk, then twisted to the other side. “I can do it. I did do it!” He backed his chair from the desk and stared at his legs. “Maybe all that worthless therapy wasn’t so worthless.” Gritting his teeth, he struggled to move his right leg. His foot raised less than an inch from the platform. “I moved my foot,” he prayerfully whispered.

         “That’s great, Martin, just great.” With a quick jig, Kyle reached the controls of the power chair and spun his friend around. “Man, wait ‘til we tell everyone.”

         “No, no, don’t tell anyone.” For emphasis, Martin shook his head. “I don’t want anyone besides us to know yet.”

          The grins disappeared from the other men’s faces, and a deep frown furrowed Kyle’s forehead. “Why not? I’d think you’d want to share that news with everyone.”

          Frank’s grin crept back across his face. “You dirty dog, you plan on trapping your lady-love.”

          Still frowning, Kyle lowered his over-sized body back onto the sofa and glared back and forth between Martin and Frank. “Okay, I’m missing something.”

         “Look, Kyle, I said I’ve heard things about Midnight, and one thing I heard was she only goes after guys that have something wrong with them. One guy had a messed up arm. Another had cancer. Really weird, especially if that’s her in that picture.”

         “And the guy who went over the railing was paralyzed. Gotcha.” He leaned back and crossed one ankle over the opposite knee. “You think she’s involved, and you gonna set yourself up as bait, Martin?”

         “If that’s what it takes, Kyle.”

         “So what do you want us to do?”

          After a brief discussion about assignments, Frank and Kyle left for their shift at the Oklahoma City Police Department. As soon as his friends pulled out of his driveway, Martin returned to his computer and telephone. He concentrated so completely on his searches that when his mother laid her hand on his shoulder, he jumped, throwing the mouse across the desk hard enough that it bounced off and hung dangling by its cable.

         “Mom! Don’t sneak up like that. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” he demanded.

         “Hey,” his mother replied, “I was hardly quiet coming in. You were so engrossed you didn’t hear me.” She moved back to survey the room. “Did you have a party in here?”

          Spinning his chair to face the mess left on the coffee table, Martin chuckled. “You might say that. Frank and Kyle brought breakfast.”

         “Good!” Sara replied. “I’m so glad.”

         “Mom, we’re working on a case.” Martin gave another chuckle. “Well, that was the excuse, I guess. It was sure good to see them.”

         “Great! That makes me feel better. I guess I don’t need to worry about breakfast for you before you go to therapy."

         “I’m sorry I didn’t let you know. I just started working after the guys left and never noticed the time.”

         “That’s okay. It’s good to see you taking an interest in something again.” Sara started toward the door. “Your dad is driving you today. He’ll be ready in about thirty minutes.” She turned to face her son across the room. “You might want to get dressed, unless you plan on wearing pajama bottoms.”

          An hour later Martin faced the parallel bars in the therapy room. He shut his eyes as he gritted his teeth. Opening his eyes, he literally and figuratively squared his shoulders. Maneuvering his chair close enough to the end of the bars so that he could reach both sides, he grasped one bar in each hand and pulled himself up on quivering legs, anticipating the pain that always streaked upward into his back. He stood breathing deeply before bending his head to stare at his legs. With a puzzled frown, he confronted the therapist standing beside him.

         “The pain,” he stammered, “the pain didn’t . . . it’s just a twinge.” He gave a quiet laugh. “The pain is just a twinge.”

         “Hey, man,” the therapist replied, “we’ve been telling you things would get better.”

         “Yep, you sure have.”

          With a grunt, Martin forced his right foot to shuffle slightly forward, then his left. By the time he reached the end of the bars, sweat matted his hair and streaked his face, and large wet patches stained his tee shirt. A huge smile split his face, though, when he dropped into his power chair, which had been moved from the other end by one of the orderlies.

          The euphoria still remained as he sat at his computer later. He discovered himself smiling as he attempted to follow the leads and trail of “Midnight” through cyber space. The dead ends and false starts didn’t faze his good mood as he searched for information on her throughout the afternoon. By the time his friends pounded on the door at the end of their shift, Martin felt ready for a break.

          Martin's friends had arranged themselves on the sofa when, after a knock on the door, Martin’s parents entered carrying dishes of food. Kyle and Frank jumped up, but before they could move, Sara told them, “Just let us sit these things down. You both know where everything is kept, so serve yourselves.” She and her husband set the dishes on the coffee table. “There, now, you all enjoy your dinner and confab. Either Fred or I will pick up the dirty things later.”

          Grinning widely, Martin thanked her, “We appreciate this, Mom. Guess Dad told you about this afternoon’s therapy, though.”

         “Yes, indeed he did.” She bent over to kiss his cheek. With a smile for the men on the sofa, she asked, “Isn’t it wonderful?’

         “Uh, well, we just got here,” Frank mumbled.

         “Now, dear, let Martin share the good news.” Fred slipped his arm around his wife’s waist. “We need to go eat our own dinner.”

         “Oh . . . Oh, yes. Enjoy your dinner.” She waved as she walked toward the door with Fred in tow. “Bye.”

         “Now, before we go get dishes or anything, what’s this good news?” Kyle demanded as he studied Martin across the table.

          Heaving a false sigh, Martin retorted, “Since I’m so hungry . . .” As Kyle started to stand with a clenched fist, Martin laughed. “I’m starting to get my legs back. I was able to make it from one end of the parallel bars to the other without screaming and without the therapist pushing. I’m going to be okay. . . in time.”

          His two friends pounded his shoulder and laughed as they congratulated Martin. Kyle remarked, “I’ve always heard Jim Thorpe is one of the best rehabilitation places in the country.”

         “I believe it.” Martin shook his head. “You should see some of the ‘famous’ faces I’ve seen, major athletes.” He frowned before grinning. “Hey,” he grumbled, “enough about that, where are the dishes and drinks. I’m starving.”

          After the men finished their meal and Frank and Kyle took the leftovers and dirty dishes to the kitchen, the coffee table became their desk. Papers were piled in front of each one as they discussed the work completed that day.

         “I found that the ISP used when Midnight sent the picture covers an area around Amarillo, but not here.” Martin looked at one of the sheets of paper in front of him. “It’s a rather small company that covers part of the Texas and Oklahoma Panhandles.”

         “So, we already figured she wasn’t here, didn’t we?” Kyle grabbed the photo lying on a corner of the table. “I told you I knew that face, didn’t I?”

         “Yeah, you remember where?” Glancing up from the papers he held in his hand, Frank frowned. “What you up to?”

         “I think you’ve been around me too long. You’re starting to know me too well.” When the doorbell rang, he added, “I’ll get that. I’m expecting someone.” When he opened the front door, a tall, slender woman with long, dark hair stood framed in the opening. “Come on in, Lisa.” He moved back so that she could enter.

          A shock zapped through Martin as he half pushed himself from the chair. “Midnight?”

Next - "Midnight Hours: Chapter two"