Crime Time

While I wanted to wake Betsy and explain the situation I felt following Julie's directive might free her to be more forthcoming. I drove the few miles to Howie's home feeling as guilty as a cheating husband for leaving Betsy alone and uninformed.

Julie met me at the door before I turned off my car. She was dressed in her Harvard tee shirt and pajama bottoms. "Molly is asleep so we have to be quiet," she said as she led me into the living room." She was as nervous as a cat in a dog pound.

"Does Howie know you're here?" I asked before I realized how accusatory the question sounded.

"No, but he wouldn't mind I . . . don't think. But don't tell him!"

"Julie, this situation is making me very uncomfortable. . ."

"I won't stay in his house long. We'll drive back in the morning."

"The problem isn't your staying her; it's this whole clandestine meeting."

"Please; sit. Just hear me out." I did as she directed. She remained standing and began to pace about the room. "Howie said you're the smart one. Plus, you're the boss."

"I feel more like a ship's sailor in a storm, with shredded sails with someone handing me a needle and thread."

"I made a really bad mistake and I don't know what to do."

"Julie, you should be talking to Howie, not me."

"God, no! He'd die if he knew what I did!"

I took a deep breath. "Okay, tell me Julie."

She plunked in a chair and began to sob. I suppose I should have tried to console her, but I was peeved. I had no stomach to involve myself in the love relationship of these two. When Julie controlled herself she apologized and looked up at me.

"I know all about it. I know what Howie and you guys do though God knows, I don't know how."

"You know what?" I asked, fear creeping in like a cat on the prowl.

"The going back business; finding missing kids; sometimes seeing them hurt. He's the one the newspaper is always talking about . . . the psychic. You're all involved, I guess pretending all that other work business."

Denying it seemed fruitless yet I couldn't bring myself to confirm what she was saying. "Have you spoken to Howie about this?"

"Go, no! That's why I'm talking to you! He'd kill me; I swear to God, he would! He will, if he finds out if you can't help me."

"What makes you think you're saying is true?" I hedged.

"Howie has dreams. He talks, says things. I've known for months; almost since the first time we did it . . . slept together. He knows he has nightmares and tosses and turns but he doesn't realize he talks out loud lots of times."