Outside of the police station, Rachel kept asking for answers and I kept stalling. As we drove away, she asked the big question, "Did you kill him?"
"No."
"Do you know who might have wanted him dead?"
"It could have been anyone."
"If the Sheriff was correct that someone was looking for something important, do you know what they were looking for?"
"It might have been money."
"How much money are we talking about?"
"Over forty million dollars."
"That's a lot of reasons to kill someone. How do you know he had that much?"
"He won the jackpot in a state lottery and gave me some of it."
"Why?"
Not willing yet to trust her enough to tell the real reason, I answered, "We were good friends."
"So, anyone who saw his name on a list of lottery winners might know that information."
"Not exactly."
"What does that mean?"
"When they check his fingerprints at the morgue they'll discover his real name wasn't Jack Smith."
"What was his real name?"
"Dylan Roberts and he's on an FBI watch list."
'Stop the car. STOP THE CAR!"
I pulled over to the side of the road.
"What have you gotten me into? Was he some sort of terrorist? Are you?"
"We're not terrorists but I believe it was a secret we share that got him killed. I don't think it was money that the thief was after and if someone makes the connection between Dylan and me, I might be next. So forgive me if I don't share that secret with you, I'd prefer that you weren't in danger too."
"Just associating with you puts me in danger."
"No it doesn't. If I'm right, the killer knows I wouldn't share the secret with someone I just met even if it was my lawyer."
I could see Rachel scanning my face, looking for some indication that I was lying but not finding any.
"You're serious, aren't you?"
"Very."
"Do you think the person got what they came for?"
"No. Dylan told me he no longer had the object but I don't think the killer believed him."
"Do you?"
"If I'm being truthful, I've never been sure. If it still exists he'd have kept it close to him. The killer probably thought the same thing and trashed the house looking for it. When can I get into the house?"
"It's been my experience that most murder scenes take several days to process properly. For a start, everything in the scene is photographed and videoed. Every footprint or partial is diagramed, measured and analyzed. Then there's fingerprints and blood areas. In some cases, outside experts are called in. A pathologist to look at the body, a Blood Pattern Analysis expert and a Ballistics expert if a gun was used. Since Dylan was of special interest to the government, the investigators will take extra time to get everything right. Hopefully you can get into the house within a week. Are you hoping to find something no one else did?"
"Well, I do have an advantage. I know what I'm looking for."
"If you don't mind my asking, how did the two of you meet?"
"I found something of his and returned it."
"You don't give much information."
"I told you I'm trying to keep you out of harm's way. Despite your tough attitude, I like you. Listen, do you want to continue this conversation over a cold beer? You do drink beer don't you?"
"Yes, I drink beer but rarely in public."
"Why not? It would add to your image as a tough lady."
"It's okay to use the word 'bitch'. I know what people say about me."
"I'd never use that word to describe you. I used to be a salesman and I can read people as well you can. You use that attitude to survive in a world that doesn't treat women the same as men."
After a long pause, Rachel replied, "So where can a lady get a beer around here?"
"First, you'll have to get out of that outfit and into something that won't be out of place in a neighborhood bar."
"Where will I meet you?"
"There's a place called O'Malley's on Fifth Street. Be there at 7 and I'll save you a seat at the bar."
"Deal."
By 7:20 Rachel had still not arrived and I thought she'd changed her mind but she entered O'Malley's in a pair of jeans and a silk shirt that definitely wasn't off the rack. As she sat next to me she whispered, "This is the best I could do. I don't own many casual clothes."
"It's the thought that counts and, by the way, you're gorgeous. Did you see how many men and women checked you out when you entered?"
"No. I was too self conscious of how I looked to notice."
'What would you like to drink?"
"I came here for a beer, remember?"
"Any particular brand?"
"I'll drink what you're having."
I waved to the bartender to get his attention and ordered two Coronas. When they arrived, I spoke.
"Rachel, I offer a toast to commemorate this special evening." With bottle raised, I looked into her eyes and said, "To the nights we'll always remember and the friends we'll never forget."
As our bottles clinked, I noticed an expression on Rachel's face that was a mixture of emotions. I could identify confusion and I hoped another was the start of something else. I know I felt a connection but it might be too much to ask for her to feel it too.
"Rachel, with all the darkness surrounding my life right now, you're the one bright spot. Whether you ever agree to go out with me again or not, I want you to know I meant every word of that toast."
Rachel never responded to that comment but that night I think I saw a side of her that she had kept hidden from everyone else.
It was exactly a week later that Rachel and I were allowed to enter the house that had been occupied by Dylan. Everything was a mess. Lamps were smashed and papers were scattered everywhere. Blood stains on the carpet were reminders of what had taken place. Whoever the killer was, he or she was very professional. According to the police, the only fingerprints in the house belonged to Dylan and me which is why I was still a suspect.
Knowing the condition that the house would be in, I asked Rachel to dress accordingly. She went shopping and now dressed in clothes more suitable for manual labor than a professional gathering. I also ordered a dumpster delivered to the front of the house. There was a lot of stuff that needed to be carted away.
"Bob, what are we looking for?"
"Look for something out of place, something out of the ordinary. I guess we should just pick a room, clean it up and then move on to the next one until the house is somewhat back to normal but for me the first order of business is to slice up the rug and toss the pieces into the dumpster. It's a painful reminder of the death of my friend."
We spoke very little as I used a box cutter to complete the gruesome task and Rachel used a broom to sweep up the pieces of broken lamps and picture frames. When asked if I had any preference where we should clean next, I remembered that Dylan used to keep the rock next to his bed so I chose his bedroom.
The killer must have had the same idea because the room was a disaster. Not only were the drawers in his dresser emptied onto the floor, all the pieces of furniture in the room were destroyed. My guess is that it was to make sure there were no hidden compartments.
I became pretty good at tossing things out of the windows on the second floor into the dumpster and soon the room was relatively empty. Unfortunately, nothing special was uncovered. The same was true of the upstairs guest rooms and bathroom.
"Rachel, do you want to grab a pizza before you go home?"
"First beer and now pizza. I'd love it but I might need to buy different size clothes if I keep eating with you."
"You burned off enough calories today to handle one slice of pizza but your point is well taken. I have to learn to eat healthier. I ate a lot of junk food when I was traveling on the road as a salesman."
"No business lunches and martinis?"
"I sold farm equipment. Farmers don't drink martinis."
"Bob, for the next week, I can't be here. I have other clients that I've neglected and I have to prepare for their trial dates."
"I understand. I'm happy you were able to spend as much time with me as you did. While you're gone I'll continue to clean up the place."
The job took much longer with only one person doing the cleaning but by the following Saturday there was only one room left to clean up. The second floor had been made livable again with new furniture and bedding. I felt it was easier to live in that house rather than my own while I returned it to its condition before the attack. It was also the day I heard the playful voice of Rachel again.
"Honey, I'm home."
I yelled back, "I'm in the den."
"Find anything yet?"
"Nothing. Help me pick up the books and put them back on the shelves."
As we started to work I heard Rachel remark, 'What's this?"
I was in shock as I saw what she was holding. It was the journal that Dylan had written a long time ago.
As she handed it to me I pondered what to tell her. Casually I flipped through the pages I had read many times but this time I noticed there were new entries including one very special one. Dylan had left me a message. Reading it, I knew everything would be alright.
"Rachel, please join me on the front porch."
There were two rocking chairs on the porch and I assumed that was no accident. It was where I would have the conversation I had been debating about since I met Rachel. I liked her but I wasn't sure how much I could trust her. Until that moment I couldn't be sure if I should tell her about the rock.
"Rachel, are you a religious person?"
"I don't go to church regularly, if that's what you're asking."
"No, I mean can you accept things that are beyond our understanding?"
"You mean, like miracles?"
"That's exactly what I mean."
"No. I've always thought they were either exaggerations of events, stories from people who saw what they wanted to see, or magic tricks. I've never seen a real miracle."
"Rachel, if you were wearing a hat, I'd tell you to hold onto it because your world is going to change in a few minutes. The reason Dylan was on an FBI watch list isn't because he was a terrorist. It's because a government official overheard a relative of his talk about dreams he had. You see, Dylan could see events in his dreams, events he couldn't possibly have known about. He wrote about those events in this journal and left it for someone to find in the hope that if something happened to him, someone would know his story. I was the one who found it and that's how we met."
"How do you know the stories in the journal are real?"
"I'm getting to that. After a while the timeline in his dreams progressed and he could see not just the past but the future. That made him extremely dangerous to the world and he went into hiding under the name Jack Smith."
"Did he ever share any of those prophesies with you?"
