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Back The Desert of Glass Save as PDF
Chapters (84)
  1. BY MICHAEL C. GRUMLEY
  2. Prologue
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 36
  39. 37
  40. 38
  41. 39
  42. 40
  43. 41
  44. 42
  45. 43
  46. 44
  47. 45
  48. 46
  49. 47
  50. 48
  51. 49
  52. 50
  53. 51
  54. 52
  55. 53
  56. 54
  57. 55
  58. 56
  59. 57
  60. 58
  61. 59
  62. 60
  63. 61
  64. 62
  65. 63
  66. 64
  67. 65
  68. 66
  69. 67
  70. 68
  71. 69
  72. 70
  73. 71
  74. 72
  75. 73
  76. 74
  77. 75
  78. 76
  79. 77
  80. 78
  81. EPILOGUE
  82. II
  83. III
  84. IV

“I wanted to show her something her daughter wanted her to see.  My late wife.  I was hoping it would help bridge the divide between us.”

“I see.  I understand some of her friends at the retirement home claimed your mother-in-law blamed you for her daughter’s death.”

Rickards slowly nodded.

“And you think your mother-in-law was so moved by what you showed her that she just forgave you and then decided to go back on her own.”

“Yes.”

A wary Hayton shook her head.  “Something about this story of yours isn’t adding up.”

“It’s the truth.”

A very stretched truth, he thought.

“And your trips to Mexico?”

“It was one of my wife’s favorite places.”

Another lie.

Hayton seemed unconvinced but changed the subject with a sigh.  “Well, Mr. Rickards, if what you say is true about your mother-in-law, there’s still one big problem.”

“What’s that?”

“If she was so taken with whatever you showed her in Bolivia, that she just had to go back… why do you suppose she took four more people with her?”

18

18

The foyer was beautifully decorated, as always, with bright wallpaper and furniture and fresh flowers on a three-foot-long table available for anyone to take and enjoy.  Leonard Townsend inhaled the scent as he passed them.

“Hello, Isabelle,” he said warmly.

The nurse, dressed in light-pink scrubs, turned and smiled as he walked behind her.  “Good afternoon, Mr. Townsend.  How are you?”

“Very well, thank you.”

Continuing forward, Townsend walked past a bulletin board covered with half a dozen colorful announcements and then through a set of propped open double doors before proceeding down the clean, wide hallway.

On his left, an even wider door opened into a dining room filled with two dozen round tables, scattered patients occupying each one.

Further, he passed another nurse and greeted her with the same warm smile before eventually reaching the nurse’s station.  Without hesitation, he then turned and entered room 112, where his last name was posted on a placard.

Inside, he lowered the items he was carrying onto a nearby table and smiled at the woman who looked up from her wheelchair.

“Hello, Florence.”

The elderly woman was dressed in a green dress with her long gray hair tied back into a braid.  She peered up at him with a look of surprise.

“Hello.  Who are you?”

Townsend lowered himself into a chair and grinned at her as he folded his hands.  “I’m your husband.”

“My husband?”  The woman blinked at him curiously.  “I’m not married.”

“Of course you are, my dear.  To me.  Leonard.  We were married in 1961.”

“We were?”

“Yes.”

The woman stared at him for a long time, searching for something that never came.  “Was it a nice wedding?”

“It was a gorgeous wedding,” he said, reaching into his pocket and retrieving, as he always did, an old worn photo.  “This is our wedding picture.”