"Granted, the time and location are fairly precise," I said, "and Howie could probably nail it. But the publicity on this is like the second coming. We're off the front page recently and frankly, that pleases me to no end." Quinn nodded in agreement.
As the decision deadlocked at two each, I turned to Howie. He swiveled his head, back and forth between sides, unwilling as usual to make a decision. That was Howie to a tee; totally dispassionate and prosaic, ready to join the gang and do someone else's bidding but seldom a decision maker.
Betsy turned to me with a look of sadness. "It's a boy's life that's important, Ben. Nothing else matters." Even Quinn bowed his head and agreed.
It seemed to me that my wife's brief but profound statement put all else in prospective. Fears and concerns paled in importance to this unbelievable ability to save lives. With Betsy's pronouncement, we all reaffirmed our commitment. We each came to realize we were pawns in something far larger and, screw the consequences; as long as this horse was saddled, we'd ride the race, wherever it took us and do our utmost to maximize its success.
Howie was able to view the abduction, though it was particularly brutal as the young boy was knocked unconscious and bleeding. He stayed with the kidnapper's car until it pulled into an abandoned garage a few miles away. Instead of using our usual tip line, we conveyed the information directly to Detroit where the abduction took place. The kidnappers were apprehended and the boy returned, though suffering from a severe concussion and broken arm.
One of the two jailed culprits was a fringe member of the rapper's entourage. The police detective helped us by perjuring himself. He swore the tip came from someone, unidentified, but close to the rapper. No, he was quick to say, it didn't come from any "psychic foolishness" which he didn't believe existed.
It was summer, a wonderful time of year in New Hampshire and on Friday, three weeks after her first visit, Julie returned to Keene. Howie drove down and picked up his beloved, along with Molly O'Malley, her nine year old daughter. We would meet the young girl on Saturday. She would remain in town for the weekend and Howie scheduled a cook out in her honor at his place.
Howie, according to his morning coffee verbal sermons was enthralled with his property, especially his inherited garden, started by the previous tenant and lovingly cared for by him. He spent every evening tending his farm, as he called it. Flowers were abundant and vegetables planted, by the sound of it, in a volume enough to feed the county. Frost, not uncommon in New Hampshire as late as June, was considered by Howie a villain to reckon with. At the first hint of below freezing weather, Howie was on the job, covering everything and reading up on all preventive measures known to man. His little floral friends survived and were in bountiful evidence when the four of us were ushered into his splendid back yard, aglow with hanging lanterns.