Heart To Heart

It had been a long night. I knew this day would come; there was no preparation for it. As we all stood around the hospital bed, holding hands, I saw a puff of smoke above me. I looked around at our family and friends. Their eyes closed. Was it inappropriate to shout out, “Hey, look at that?” I remained silent.

The prayer circle dispersed. Looking across the bed, I saw tears in everyone’s eyes. Each person leaned over my dad’s body and whispered something in his ear, patted his hand, and left. Could he hear what they were saying? The nurses had removed his hearing aids. I was skeptical.

Trailing behind, I leaned over to tell my dad, for the last time, “I love you.” I thought I heard a heartbeat. “Wait! Come back. He’s still alive,” I wanted to scream. The monitors told me otherwise.

My dad had suffered a massive heart attack. He had been in the hospital for four days. There was nothing the doctors could do for him. His heart was doing a bypass. A blockage formed, and he wasn’t getting enough oxygen. He wasn’t healthy enough for surgery. The hospital staff never told us he wouldn’t recover.

I sent for my kids; both lived in different states. It was a prudent move, just in case. I’m glad I did. Though they were there to see their Pop-pop, I was the only one in the room when he had his last attack.

He asked me to move his bed up further. His back was hurting. As I raised the bed, he instructed me when to stop. I sat back down in the chair I had pulled up next to his bed and held his hand. His eyes were closed in a drug-infused sleep. I studied his face.

Memories flooded my mind. I am dancing on my dad’s feet in the living room to a Frank Sinatra song, riding on his shoulders, watching him work on a car engine in the garage, taking me for ice cream, walking me down the aisle, being there for me whenever I needed him. Daddy’s girl. I wished I had been a better daughter.

When the monitors began sending out a siren, the door flew open, followed by a team of nurses. I stood up and asked politely to leave the room. As I waited by the nurse’s station, one came out to speak to me.

“Your dad needs more oxygen. We want to put a tube in him to help him breathe.”

“Is it life support?” I asked, knowing he had a DNR in his file.

“No, it’s just a tube to help him get more oxygen into his bloodstream.”

“As long as it isn’t life support and will help him get better, go ahead.”

When I was allowed back in his room, a breathing tube shoved down his throat. Not expecting this, I ran out, yelling at the nurses.

“This most definitely looks like life support to me, and we have a DNR on file.” No one paid attention to me.

I called my mother, who had just left the hospital. She had been by his side for hours, and had gone to change clothes, and get something to eat.

“Mom, something happened after you left,” I explained the events leading up to the breathing tube. “They think you should come back right away. I can notify the rest of the family.”

Sitting back down at my dad’s side, I held his hand. I apologized for the breathing tube. I explained it was to help him get better. I didn’t believe it; I knew. He did not react. His eyes closed. His chest was moving up and down to the hissing of the oxygen pumped into his lungs. He never said another word.

As family and friends entered the ICU room to pay their final respects, I moved towards the window. I knew he was gone. The fake breathing didn’t fool me. By the time everyone arrived, it was after 11:00 pm.

The doctor came in and whispered to my mom. Nodding her head through her sobs, the doctor approached the bed. He removed the breathing tube and placed a stethoscope to my dad’s chest; he listened. As he turned to leave, he patted my mom on her shoulder.

It was at this time, as we all held hands, saying a prayer, the puff of smoke appeared over the bed. I said nothing.

By the time we got home, it was close to 3:00 am. My son took the couch, my daughter, the air mattress. Exhausted, I crawled into my bed and fell into a deep sleep.

I dreamed my dad was standing on my porch, waiting for me. Opening the door, I saw a younger version of him, like the pictures I had seen when he was a young man. Handsome, with dark brown hair, and dressed in a suit from a different era, cigarette in hand.

“Hey, Luc, come on out and dance with me.” He reached his hand up for me to take.

As he guided me down the steps, I heard orchestra music playing.

“Daddy, I’m so glad you came to visit me.”

“Anything for my little girl.”

“So, how is it?” I asked.

“How’s what?”

“Being dead.”

“Look at me. What do you think?”

“I think you look great. But why are you here? Shouldn’t you be on your way to see St. Peter?”

“He can wait a little longer. I wanted to come by and see my favorite girl first.”

I lay my head on his shoulder. I could hear his heart beating. I could smell cigarette smoke mixed in with the smell of his cologne. Sweet tobacco. I breathed it in. I didn’t want the dream to end — one more twirl, one more hug.

As he twirled me around one last time, he slowly faded away. Crying out, “No, stay.” I awoke from my dream.

Gray daylight streamed through my bedroom window. As I lay in bed, wanting to remember everything, I heard a rumbling. Were we having an earthquake?

Jumping out of bed, I ran into the living room. I opened the front door. My kids woke up.

“What’s the matter?” they asked.

“Listen,” I said.

Standing with the front door open, we heard it. Thunder. Loud bursts of rolling thunder.

I turned and smiled at my kids.

“He made it!”

Forever Seventeen


The following deals with a True Crime murder

Bailey, Colorado – Park County

December 1, 2017

Seventeen-year-old Maggie Long, excited to be a part of the first concert at Platte Canyon High School, had forgotten something at home. After school, she drove the 20 minutes to her family’s ranch to retrieve it. When she pulled up the long driveway, she noticed a white van, an old beat-up Ford truck, and a brownish colored older model minivan blocking the garage door. Her family had been renting out their attic space to some people and probably thought the cars belonged to them. We will never know what was going on in her head that afternoon.

I didn’t know her personally but had heard much about her. She was on the debate team at Platte Canyon High School, where I had been a judge earlier in the year. She was good. A straight “A” student, a thespian for the local theater group, and everyone knew her. No one ever had a bad word to say about Maggie. She was an excellent role model for many of her fellow students and friends. Every year on her birthday, she would make hundreds of sandwiches, passing them out to the homeless on the streets of Denver. Many saw her studying at a table at her parent’s Chinese restaurant. You don’t run across many people like Maggie in your lifetime.

The following morning, I awoke to Facebook posts asking the public if they had seen Maggie. Pictures of her were attached to the post, and her sister said she was missing. There were numerous comments of concern and volunteers wanting to put a search party together. But the police said no, it wasn’t necessary, without giving anyone a reason.

When the students went back to school on Monday, there were grief counselors on hand for them. The parents were confused. Why grief counselors if Maggie was only missing? Did she have a fight with her parents? Did she quarrel with her boyfriend? The community still had no answers, and the police weren’t saying anything.

A week passed. The police came out with an official statement. A gag order was placed on all information on the case. Maggie’s burned body was found in her parent’s house. They had known all along and never said a word to the public. An entire week had gone by without a word about Maggie. The community, visibly upset and angry, wanting to know what happened to Maggie.

The details of that day are sketchy. Maggie went home to retrieve something she had forgotten for the concert. Upon entering her home, she interrupted a burglary taking place by three young white males. She fought with them. They ended up overtaking her, tying her to a bed. Speculation, she had been raped. During the burglary, the murderers stole jade figurines, a gun safe, several weapons including handguns and an AR-15 with over 2,000 rounds of ammunition. Loading up a white van, a brownish minivan, and an old Ford 150 pickup truck. They poured gasoline on Maggie and set her on fire. According to the coroner’s report, she had been burned alive.

When the renters called the police, the vehicles were still at the residence. The police or fire department had to have passed them as they approached the house. Unbeknownst to law enforcement, they allowed the killers to get away. Because their ranch set back onto acres of land and secluded from the road, there was only one way in and one way out. They drove out of the ranch gates and headed for Denver, in the dark. They are still on the run.

The community, shocked and horrified. Her friends, devastated. They wanted to know why the police withheld the information. They wanted to know why they hadn’t found the killers yet. Waiting over a week to disclose any information, law enforcement now wanted to know if anyone had seen anything. A tip line was set up. They questioned thousands of residents, going door to door, taking DNA samples from boys in the town fifteen and older. The police force called in the FBI and CBI. Roadblocks were set up by the ranch gates, stopping every resident going down the road passing out flyers featuring a generic sketch of one of the killers, along with pictures of what was taken from the house; they came up empty-handed.

Months passed, and they had no leads in the case. Maggie’s parents closed both restaurants they owned and left town. Rumors started to fly. One stated the family was targeted. They had been involved in illegal activities, trafficking Chinese people for some gang. All ridicules, all unfounded. Who could blame them for leaving town?

Maggie was to celebrate her eighteenth birthday that year on December 17th. Two weeks after her murder, her friends continued the tradition of making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  They handed out sandwiches to the homeless, all in her memory. That June, she was an honorary graduate. Her sister accepted her high school diploma.

On the one-year anniversary of Maggie’s murder, the FBI and CBI set up another roadblock by the ranch gates. This time they had sketches of three males who may be involved. A website designated for tips as well as supplying information to the public. But again, the case still isn’t solved.

When another case similar to Maggie’s happened in Missouri, the police and FBI sent out a detective to interview the young woman, who had survived, trying to get a description of her perpetrators. They were, in fact caught, but the DNA sample wasn’t a match. Another potential lead lost.

My family and I have moved from the area, but it is still a hard pill to swallow for the community at large. An emptiness felt throughout the town when Maggie was killed, and a rage still exists about how the police department handled the case. The sheriff, who decided to start his retirement early, unbeknownst to the townspeople who paid his salary. Many believe if he had been around, the killers wouldn’t have gotten away.

The two-year anniversary of Maggie’s murder is approaching, and still, the police have no new leads. The entire community still mourns her loss. The three men in the sketch are still free and believe they have gotten away with murder.

The reason I am writing this story is the information needs to go beyond Colorado. These men could be anywhere. The more platforms that publish the story, the more eyes get to look for any similarities. One man is believed to have burn marks on one of his forearms.


On the day of Maggie’s murder, she was reported to have left school around 3:30-3:35 pm. She would have arrived at her home by 4:00  pm.

A local resident was driving down Deer Creek Valley Ranchos Road and recalls no unusual activity at the Long home. The 911 call came into police dispatch at 7:01 pm. The reporting party stated they heard yelling and items being thrown around. They also smelled smoke. The reporting party was the tenants who lived in the attic.

A local resident reported an older model, tan vehicle driving fast out of the Long Ranch, crossing over into oncoming traffic.

Fire department was called out at 7:12 pm.  Arriving at the residence, they discovered a one-story frame house with a fire in the garage.

By 8:00 pm the tenant was able to be removed from the residence. At 8:15, CBI was called out due to multiple fire ignitions. 8:45 pm completely extinguished fire when the coroner was called out to the scene. The family had gathered in the driveway, and no one was permitted to enter the premises.

Around 9:30 pm, Maggie’s sister posted a call for help to find her sister.

That evening, the concert went on without Maggie. Her friends, fellow students, and teachers were asking about her all night. It was unusual for her not to be there, especially since she was one of the organizers. When I see the timeline of events, it saddens me. To know, while she was suffering, others were enjoying themselves, listening and dancing to music. Was Maggie there in spirit? From 7 pm, the start of the concert, until it ended at 9 pm, Maggie’s spirit was among her friends; whispering her last goodbyes, knowing she would forever be seventeen.

There’s currently a $50,000 reward for information that leads to the arrest of the individual(s) responsible.

See photos here

New Author Name

Be sure to check out my new author page on Coffeehouse Writer’s where I’ll be writing articles every 2 weeks and will have them published there as well as here.

I will also be writing under the name of LC Ahl for Coffeehouse. My next article will be published on Monday, October 14th and another one on October 28th…don’t worry, I will keep you informed!!

My next article is a true crime piece on the murder of Maggie Long in Bailey Colorado. I am writing it because her murderers are still out there and they need to be brought to justice. My hope is it will get into the hands of more people scattered throughout the US and possibly the world (through you, my followers). Maggie deserves justice!

Thank you to all who follow my blog! Be sure to follow and like my stuff on Coffeehouse Writers!! Coffeehousewriters.com check out all the other amazing authors work too!!

Never Say Goodbye

There were so many little things Trent remembered when he and Katherine were a living, breathing couple. Today, was the twang in Tim McGraw’s voice singing one of their favorite songs on his truck radio. Moments like these brought tears to his eyes.

He grabbed his Aviators off the sun visor and placed them on his face. No need for anyone to see his emotions. Turning onto the tree-lined street, he noticed the beauty of the leaves turning color.  Most days he drove to work and back in a trance-like state, never noticing the beauty which surrounded him.

He pulled his truck into the circular driveway, and parked by the front doors. Kate didn’t like him parking there. She used to say, “What if someone drops in to see us? They’ll have a hard time backing out.” But these last few years, not too many people dropped by anymore. The first six months there seemed to be hordes of people showing up to see how he was doing, but they stopped coming around.

Kate was the social butterfly, not him.

As he entered the house, the security alarm sounded like a countdown to a nuclear blast.  He inserted the code and threw his keys in a bowl on the half table in the foyer.

“Honey, I’m home,” he shouted.

The silence was deafening.

He walked into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator door and retrieved a beer. Twisting the cap off, he placed it between his forefinger and thumb. He pretended he was making a goal. Aiming for the trash can lid, he flicked it, and watched as the cap bi-passed the lid and fell to the floor.

“Tomorrow’s another day for a win,” he said to himself.

He shed his jacket and shoes as he headed towards the staircase, leaving them in a small pile by the kitchen entry. Kate wouldn’t like that either. In fact, she had trained him to put his stuff away where it belonged. It didn’t surprise him how easy it was to fall into his old habits without her around.

He took the steps two at a time. As he rounded the corner of the hallway leading to his bedroom, he stopped at the bookcase where all the family pictures were still displayed. He picked one up. It was one of his favorites, and he couldn’t part with it.

Their wedding day had been, at the time, the highlight of his life. In the photograph, they both were beaming, and he remembers the day as if it were yesterday. He wishes it was yesterday.

“God, I miss you so much, it hurts.” He said to the photo.

Placing the photo back on the shelf, he walked into his bedroom. It didn’t feel like his bedroom anymore. But he made the trip up the stairs at least twice a day. The couch had become his bed even though there was a perfectly good king size bed he could sleep on. Too many memories.

Almost two years since she left. Funny how fast the cancer took her. One day she was complaining about a small pain in her side, and the next, or so it seemed, she was dead. They had gone to the best doctors. By the time she had noticed any symptoms, the monster had been eating her from the inside out. They never stood a chance. They made the best of the time they had left together, and for that, he would be forever grateful. She made him promise to never say goodbye. She told him she would never leave him, and she would always be around to watch over him. It wasn’t long after that she slipped into a coma and then she was gone.

Prior to her diagnosis, they used to tease each other. If she died before him, she would come back and haunt him. He would do the same to her. No matter how hard he looked for signs, she never appeared.

Perusing through his closet, he came across his old fishing vest.

“I’ve got an idea. I should go up to our cabin. It’s been what? Two years? With the changing of the seasons and the fall colors, maybe it’s what I need to get out of my funk.” Trent talked to himself as if he were having a conversation with Kate, in hopes of hearing her voice answer back.

He threw sweats, underwear, and socks into the suitcase, which now lay open on the bed. Toothbrush, shaving kit, shampoo, soap; that should do it.  Closing the case, he carried it downstairs to the kitchen.  He grabbed a cooler from the garage, and began filling it with food supplies, enough to last the weekend.  He had no idea what condition the place was in since he hadn’t been up there since Kate’s death.

Fall, his favorite time of year, his and Kate’s.  The vivid colors of the aspen tree leaves, painted across the landscape, caused a delay in their journey every time. Kate, the amateur photographer, would want him to pull over every few miles.

Even though Trent remembered every place they had ever stopped, he drove straight through. Mile Marker 22 was unrecognizable with all the overgrown weeds and eroded dirt road. He put his truck in 4-wheel drive and drove a few miles until he came to a clearing. He stopped and stared at the log cabin with the wrap-around porch and swing for two overlooking the lake.

“Well, Kate if you’re here, you sure haven’t done much to the place.” He joked. He looked over to the passenger side of the truck. He remembered the first time they had come up there, right after they bought the place.

She was wearing white Capri jeans and a denim vest, buttoned-down so he could admire her cleavage. Her camera strap was around her neck. Her long brown hair was hanging straight, and she had on red lipstick. Her teeth were so white, they gleamed whenever she smiled. 

“I can’t believe this is our place,” she was so excited. She grabbed the door handle and jumped out. 

“Come on,” she said, “I can’t wait to see the inside.” She ran ahead of the truck, stopping every now and then to snap a picture. She ran up the three steps to the front door and disappeared inside.

Trent parked the truck and grabbed his suitcase. He’d go back for the cooler. Putting the key into the lock, he turned the knob. His stomach had butterflies flitting around, and his heart was racing. He knew once the door opened, it would flood him with more memories, but perhaps this was what he needed to get on with his life.

As soon as the door opened, he sensed something wasn’t right. He sniffed the stall air of the closed-up cabin, and a trace of lavender hit his nostrils.

“Hello? Is someone here?” he yelled out.

“Kate? Is that you?” he whispered.

Putting his suitcase down, he walked through the cabin. He ran his fingers along the furniture Kate had purchased from the little antique shop in town. He picked up the little potpourri bowl on the side table and took a long whiff.  Another memory came flooding back to him.

She had come back from a shopping spree with a bag of lavender potpourri and an antique pink crystal candy bowl. She poured the open bag into the dish and put it up for him to smell.

“This will make the cabin more welcoming; don’t you think?” she asked. “Even says so on the back of the bag. And when you come up here with your buddies, you’ll be reminded of me.” She kissed him on the cheek, and as she started to walk away, he grabbed her, pulling her close to him. He gave her a long, deep kiss on the lips.

“I don’t need potpourri to remember you.”

Putting his suitcase in the small bedroom, he went out to get the cooler. He needed a drink. Opening up kitchen cabinets, he knew he had a bottle of scotch hidden somewhere in one of them. Finding it, he poured himself a half glass, threw a few ice-cubes in to chill the warm liquid, and walked out to the swing on the porch. The cabin sat on a lake surrounded by forest on three sides. Not a soul in sight for miles and the quiet, except for a few birds, was deafening. The sun was sitting above the tree line, and it illuminated the colors of the aspens. If Kate were here, she would have taken a picture.

As Trent looked over the lake, he thought he saw something moving in the forest. The shadows were playing tricks with his eyes, or so he thought. And then he saw her, a woman, standing just at the edge of the tree line. She was wearing a yellow sundress, and her long brown hair was flowing in the breeze. He raised his hand in a wave-like gesture, but she disappeared into the forest.

“Kate?” he whispered.

* * * * *

When he didn’t show up for work that Monday morning, Trent’s boss assumed he was ill. But when he didn’t show up the following day, he called the police to do a welfare check. Finding nothing amiss, they shrugged it off. A few weeks later, a couple of hunters came across the body of a man in a camo colored fishing vest, sitting under a tree as if he were waiting for someone. After contacting the sheriff, the coroner determined the poor soul had died from exposure.

* ****

After Trent’s funeral, his brother went up to the cabin. What could have possessed him to go into the forest without proper attire? When he opened the cabin door, he could smell hints of lavender. The cooler was where Trent had left it. A half-empty bottle of scotch was sitting on the counter, next to an empty glass. Pouring himself a drink, he walked out to the porch, looking across the lake.  The sun was sitting above the tree line.  And that’s when he saw it, a dark-haired woman in a yellow sundress and behind her, a man in a camo colored fishing vest.