A Revealing Ride to Town
On the way into town, Abbey gave Ron Coleman the guided tour from a 10-year resident’s point of few. The Sangre De Cristos shadowed the autumn road. The contrast of the snowcapped peaks and the red and orange foliage as they passed the old asylum on the hill, made for a picture postcard view. None of this went unnoticed or unappreciated by Mr. Coleman. His eyes seemed to dwell on the stone building as Abbey joked that the place always seemed to spook her unexplainably.
Abbey found herself telling Ron what she had spoken to few people about since arriving in Cherry Creek. She explained her mission to the Sheriff’s was to see about having her husband, Christopher declared dead. It had been ten years since his disappearance back in Boston. The former schoolteacher had finally reached a point where she could say good-bye and accept the fact that Christopher’s disappearance might never be explained. She also had grown to realize, she would never see him again.
The government agent listened intently, then reached down to fiddle with a wooden cross Abbey had dangling from the radio knob. Abbey glanced his way momentarily, but kept her eyes on the road, enjoying the ease at which they conversed. It was as if she’d known him all her life and felt an immediate bond with him.
“Are you from Oregon?” He quizzed Abbey while fingering the inlaid wood.
Abbey was visibly astounded by the astute question. “I was on my way back from an interview there, when I found my way to Cherry Creek.” She explained, eyeing him keenly now. “What made you ask that?”
He pulled out a small keychain with the same inlaid wood. “The cross.” He answered. Only two areas on earth you’ll find myrtle wood. Actually only one place with this particular grain though.” Then he smiled, half-teasing her, “Or have you been interviewing in Jerusalem, as well?”
“No. No, I’ve actually never been outside the United States. So what does that wood tell you?” Abbey was truly baffled.
“Oregon myrtle wood is unique in its grain. Found only in Oregon or northern California. A different strain of it can be found in the Holy Land, but this is definitely Oregon myrtle wood.”
“So, can I assume you are from Oregon?” Abbey asked, hoping she did not sound like she was prying.
“Northern California, actually.” Ron replied. “I worked for Lockheed in the Special Services Division before I was recruited by Uncle Sam.”
Staring at the myrtle wood cross, something clicked in Abbey’s memory. That big rig driver that thought he was Elvis’s twin brother had recently left her a souvenir bowl made of the same type of wood. She’d tried to refuse it, but left it at the counter anyway. She had been using it as a catchall. Until now, she’d never really given it a second though
“And what brings you to Cherry Creek, Ron.” She asked, warming to the conversation.
“A couple of things, Abbey.” He spoke quietly, almost as if reminiscing. “I have a cousin in these parts I plan to look up. Happen to know the Cordilleras?”
When Abbey shook her head, he replied quietly, “Didn’t think so.”
“But that’s not my main reason for being here. Abbey, I am a pretty good judge of people”. He said unexpectedly. “And I have a gut feeling about you. What I’m about to tell you will need to be kept in the strictest confidence.”
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