“Yes. The bake shop is right across from the main entrance. They’ve tried to close it a couple times. People worry that the kids are getting too much sugar. But it’s still there.”
It was a weekend, so the school was closed. But the bake shop was open. We landed in an adjacent field and a couple of minutes later were taking a long look at Esther Horn’s cherry-flavored croissants. She was a tall blonde who managed to look genuinely happy to see us. Her cinnamon-colored eyes had a depth that suggested a serious level of intelligence and, if called for, tenacity. It was easy to imagine her confronting school authorities who were trying to close her down. “Sure,” she said, “I remember Angela. She used to come in here all the time.”
The shop was stocked with oversized brownies; olive oil cake; lemon, banana, and peach muffins; zucchini bread; strawberry shortcake; apple and cherry pie; chocolate cake; and a variety of cookies. No wonder the school authorities were worried.
“Can you help us locate her?” asked Gabe.
“She’s a long walk from here. What’s going on? You guys salesmen?”
“No.” Gabe thought about what he wanted to tell her. “We may have some good news for her.”
“Really? Well, glad to hear it.” We indicated we’d like some buns. She put them in a bag and handed them to me. Gabe made the payment.
“Do you know where she lives?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. But it’s going to take you a while to get there.”
“We were given the impression she was in this area.”
“Oh, no. No. She lives on the west coast.”
“Really?”
“That’s correct.”
“Can you give us an address?”
“I don’t like to give out personal information. You want to tell me specifically why you want to contact her?”
“She was a client. I lost touch with her years ago. I owe her something.”
Her eyes darkened. “How about I pass your name and code along to her, and she can get in contact with ?”
“Okay.” Gabe gave her the information. “Tell her it’s important. She’ll know what it’s about.” He reached into the bag, removed one of the buns, and took a bite. “It’s good,” he said.
“You can’t go wrong with cinnamon buns, Mr. Benedict.”
“Esther, how long has it been since you’ve seen her?”
“A couple of years. I don’t think she’s been back here since her wedding.” She was looking past us, her mind somewhere else. “I miss her.”
“Did you know her brother?”
“Rick? Yes, I knew him.” She hesitated. “We were pretty close at one time. I was horrified about what happened to him at that space station. Terrible. He was a decent guy.” She took a long deep breath. “I assume you know about that.” Gabe nodded but said nothing. “He used to come in here all the time.” She smiled at the bag. “He loved cinnamon buns. I haven’t heard anything for a long while. Did they ever figure out what happened?”
“Not that I know of,” said Gabe.
“Well, if they haven’t figured it out yet, I don’t guess it’s going to happen.” She tried another smile, hoping to reassure us that everything was all right. “He was away a lot. Spent his time traveling around out there.” She glanced up at the ceiling. “Periodically he came home. More or less. His intention, as he explained it to me, was to live a life of leisure. He never stayed long, though. I don’t think he ever stayed more than a few months before he took off again.”
“To do what?” asked Gabe.
“He was a pilot. Interstellars.” A customer came in and bought a chocolate cake. We got out of the way until he’d left. Then Esther picked up her narrative: “I should mention, by the way, that he enjoyed mountain climbing. He was out there one day when they had a landslide. Some girl troopers got caught in the path of the thing. Rick ran into the middle of it and helped get them out. He saved, I think, four of them. Got them huddled down somewhere until the danger was past. They were lucky he was there. That was how he was. Always put other people first.”
“Thanks, Esther,” Gabe said. Another customer was coming in the door.
“The town put up a memorial to him.”
“He sounds like quite a guy,” I said.
“He was.”
“Where’s the memorial?” asked Gabe.
“Just go out the front door and turn left. It’s on the south side. In Branson Park. It’s in the center of the park. You can’t miss it.” She bit her lip and her eyes closed briefly.
“You okay, Esther?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “I’m fine.”
“One more thing: Do you know her married name?”
“It’s Montgomery.”
We climbed into the skimmer and lifted off. “Gabe,” I said, “you really want to go look at the memorial?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Not sure I can give you a reason that makes any sense.”
“Give me one that doesn’t.”
“We’re trying to decide whether this guy brought a major deep-space artifact back with him and forgot to tell anybody about it. The more we know about him, the easier it will be to figure it out.” I said okay and turned south. There were several parks. I called in to the town and asked for directions to get to Branson.
“I do. Thank you.”
The building with the pillars was a courthouse. We descended into a parking area and came down near a statue of a woman. The engraved name was Madeleine Branson.
“I should have realized,” I said.
“You know her?” asked Gabe.
She was a poet. From the previous century. “Yes,” I said. “I didn’t realize she was from around here.”
Madeleine stood with a tablet in one hand, looking toward the sky, her other hand shielding her eyes. “Yeah,” said Gabe. “I think I remember reading her work when I was in college.”
“She wrote about living for the moment. Don’t take anything for granted. That’s something I think we all learned when you went missing.”
A sign bearing Rick Harding’s name pointed toward the center of the park, where a cluster of trees circled a fountain. We followed a pebbled walkway past a few benches. Off to one side, a half-dozen kids were throwing a ball back and forth. Most of the benches were occupied. People were reading and talking. Two older guys had fallen asleep. A woman sat holding an infant. And a couple of chess games were underway.
We passed the trees. The fountain lifted a steady stream into the air. It fell back with a soft gurgle into a circular pool. Several wooden seats were available.
The sound of the water and the kids with the ball and the occasional gusts of wind disturbing leaves somehow emphasized the overall silence of the place. Gabe seemed completely absorbed by it. The moment bore a striking resemblance to an afternoon on Orpheus when he’d unearthed a thousand-year-old statue of the beloved Barlus Ocotto. In the same year, we’d entered a temple on Lycaeus that dated back to the fourth millennium. In both instances, Gabe had grown quiet as we approached. It was as if he could reach back into those long-gone years and visualize what life had been like in those ancient places. I recalled once he’d tried to explain himself, that it was a matter of living inside the experience, rather than simply trying to solve an issue.
And finally we arrived at the Harding statue. He wore a captain’s uniform and looked up past the trees. The sculptor had managed to infuse a sense of penetrating vision locked on the infinite. An inscription was carved into the base of the fountain:
Richard K. Harding
1386–1424