Free Nocturnes by T. R. Stingley Page A

illusion of locked doors was a comfort to him. There, he could wrap a blanket about his shoulders and devise clever methods of escape. His schemes grew more fantastic and bizarre with each passing day. He would fill blank pages with the details of complex plans dependent upon split-second timing and bold daring. Then, as he ran headlong through the thickets of his imagination, he would come to a clearing and see the folly of it all, and sink once more into a shuddering despair. “Oh, Lessa!” he would cry out in his anguish. “What have I done to you?”
    Lessa prayed for his recovery. But she would not join him in his hopelessness. She was unmoved by the weapons and the swagger of the Nazis. She could guess easily enough at their motives. She was not ignorant to their intentions for her people. But she knew that much of their power came from the easy surrender that they depended upon. She could withhold that from them, if nothing else. And if she were meant to die then she would die in a place that their terror couldn’t reach.
    So Isaac withered as she blossomed; she renounced her fear for all time, proclaiming her faith in love above all else. She swore that she would make him see. Somehow, someday, she would find the keys to unlock Isaac’s courageous, powerful love. This was her sacred promise to both of them. It was her prayer to God on the very night they came for Isaac and Lessa Bloom.
    Isaac awakened with a sudden astonishment of sorrow and stared blankly at the shimmering surface of the pool. He shook the lingering cobwebs from his head. What he wouldn’t give for some real rest, some dreamless sleep. Maybe another bottle of wine would grant his wish. He peeled himself off the lounger and walked stiffly to his room.

Chapter Seven
    T hree days later he was completely bored and bewildered. There hadn’t been anything in the Biloxi obituaries that would even qualify as being remotely similar. He had been so certain that the pattern was going to be perpetuated here. But now he was having third and fourth thoughts about the entire affair.
    He made up his mind to give it three more days, then fly back to Boston and forget the entire morbid business. In the meantime, a new thought occurred to him. One born of too much monotony and perhaps a little too much juice of the vine—but he decided to become less of a passive observer. He intended to find a likely locale and make a few rounds. Maybe he could learn something about the motives or methods behind the killings just by being out there among those people. Maybe he could see what the killer was seeing…tap into his thoughts.
    He spent the next afternoon shopping for menswear of the second-hand variety. He purchased a natty pair of wool trousers, a polo-type shirt with a fetching jungle-cat motif above the breast pocket, a light jacket with a busted zipper, and a rather extravagant silver-knobbed walking stick. The latter was a surprise find, but a comforting one. He offered his platinum card for payment, but the young, bepimpled clerk only yawned at him.
    “We ain’t set up to handle credit cards. All five locations of the Scrimp-a-Lot chain deal only in cash.”
    “Ah. Of course. Sorry. Here you are, then. Twenty-four fifty. And would you mind hailing me a taxi, please?”
    “There’s a phone down by the QuikeeMart. Have a nice day.”
    Back at his hotel, Isaac waited until the darkness had settled completely over the Gulf shores, then called a taxi from his room. He told the driver to take him to “where the homeless people spend their nights.” The driver answered him with a very disapproving expression but shrugged his shoulders and pulled away from the curb.
    He deposited Isaac at a poorly-lit intersection and pointed across the street to the darkened interior of Evangeline Park. As the cab sped off, Isaac suppressed the nagging fear and knee-jerk reminders of his night in Atlanta. He was somewhat comforted by the fact that he had promised the driver a