A homeless man sat up and glared directly at her. He had apparently laid two filled trash bags over himself, and as he rose, the contents of one of the bags spilled onto the walkway.
Instinctively, Stacy moved to the far side of the path. The man crouched low over his bags, like a raccoon protecting his trash treasure, his eyes barely visible behind bushy eyebrows, his yellow teeth poking out from his unkempt beard. He cursed under his breath as he watched her pass.
Stacy took a deep breath and upped her pace. Her mother’s warnings and cautionary tales replaced the baby’s shopping list as she hustled toward the park exit closest to her street.
The lovely park’s tall oaks and flowering shrubs turned restless in the wind. A dead tree’s branches clawed at the sky like skeletal fingers. Just a few yards off the path, everything was murky and shrouded, and the shifting shadows played tricks on her mind. Branches groaned and creaked, leaves rustled, an unseen creature scurried along the undergrowth.
She was almost jogging now. The heel of one of her leather shoes had dug a deep blister into the back of her foot. As she crested a hill, she stopped to get her bearings. Up ahead, the path dipped down again—into darkness. She could just barely make out another of the old-fashioned streetlights, but it was unlit, as lifeless as a dead tree. Just a little bit farther now.
She started forward, her skin prickling. She found herself holding her breath as she hurried through the darkness, forcing an exhale now and then. With every step, shivers crawled down her spine. When she heard the rush of water from a fountain up ahead, she knew she was almost out of the darkened area. And then she saw the next streetlight through the trees, shining like a welcome beacon. She breathed a sigh of relief.
“I can make it,” she reassured herself.
A muffled sound made her turn to the side. Not far away, along the tree line atop the hill, a darker shadow stood apart from the others—a hulking silhouette emerging from the woods.
The figure rushed toward her.
Stacy shrieked incoherently and bolted.
Her pursuer’s footsteps rang loudly off the concrete behind her, heavy and fast. Tears blurred Stacy’s vision, but she cast one fleeting glance over her shoulder. Like a bear crashing down from a mountain, her pursuer was gaining on her fast.
The figure was still shrouded in darkness, and the only detail Stacy could make out clearly was a ski mask.
As she ran, Stacy searched desperately for her phone in her handbag. Tight bands circled her chest as she gasped for air. Her heart thumped and thrashed like an unbalanced washing machine.
She felt the phone but her assailant’s long fingers seized her belt and yanked her back painfully.
“Let me go!”
She flung her handbag as far into the woods as she could. “Take it. Just take it! There’s money in there!” she screamed.
But the attacker ignored the bag and kept hold of her belt, and Stacy’s scream turned into a guttural wail. She felt like she was swimming through a riptide, desperate to make it to shore, as her hands clutched at the air.
She glanced back. The front of the ski mask was painted with a skull—a skull with a twisted, evil grin.
She raised her leg and drove her heel down onto her attacker’s foot as hard as she could. There was a growl of pain, and the fingers grasping her belt let go.
Stacy stumbled and then took off, screaming for help, but the only person who heard her was the one she was escaping from. The light was still too far away, and mere light wouldn’t protect her now. Her only chance was to lose her attacker in the darkness. She kicked off her shoes and ran off the path, the wet grass slick beneath her bare feet.
She still had her phone in her hand, and once again she tried to dial. But her attacker had recovered quickly and closed the distance. Pushed from behind, she pitched forward and landed hard on her chest. The phone flew from her hand and landed softly in the grass in front of her, the numbers 911 illuminated on the screen. She just needed to press the call button.
But it was too late. A hand grabbed the back of her neck. Long fingers wrapped around her belt and yanked her up.
She screamed and grabbed at the hands, but they only tightened their grip. A muscular arm circled her waist from behind and dragged her toward the woods. Her arms thrashed, but she could only beat helplessly at the air. She kicked backward, and her foot struck flesh, but her attacker didn’t slow.
Fear turned into abject terror.
She dug her feet into the ground, trying to slow their progress. A rock sliced deep into her heel, but still she fought and kicked.
Finally her attacker must have decided they were far enough from the path, as Stacy was flung roughly to the ground, face up.
“Please, no—”
With one last burst of strength, she clawed at her attacker’s face. Grasping the ski mask, she wrenched it off.
Her eyes widened with recognition of the last face she would ever see.
A fist slammed into her face. She tried to think, but her mind fogged. “Please—”
Then the fist struck again, and everything went black.
3
Can’t You See the Resemblance?
Jack had been waiting in the line for a passport at the post office for almost an hour. As the line crawled forward, his reservoir of patience inched downward, and he was running on fumes. Now the man in front of him was chatting with the woman behind the counter as though they were old friends.
The government office looked as if someone had mashed together a bank and a deli. Speckled gray and black linoleum tiles covered the open floor. A counter divided the room in half. There were five sections where clerks could assist people, but only one window was open. Jack stood with about a dozen other people in a roped-off section that made him feel like a rat in a maze. For the hundredth time, he willed the line to move forward.
“Enjoy the rest of the afternoon.” The woman smiled at the man she’d just helped.
What’s left of it, Jack thought to himself. He stepped forward and handed her his passport application.
The woman set his papers on the counter, adjusted her glasses with one hand, and patted her short, coffee-colored hair with the other. Using her finger as a guide, she checked that each box of the form was correct. When she lazily reached for her coffee cup, Jack wanted to scream.
He read the brass name plate on her desk. “Deborah, as you know, that form’s ten pages long. There’s no reason to double-check every item again. I’m getting a passport before I enlist in the Army. I checked the form, my recruiter checked it, my father checked it, and my mom went over it with a magnifying glass. Let’s say we speed-read this, and you can have an early lunch?” He gave her one of his roguish grins.
Deborah’s wrinkles deepened. “If there’s a problem, they’ll kick it back and you’ll have to do everything all over again.”
“I’m not leaving for three months. Besides”—Jack leaned closer—“I’m sure you know this form so well that you can give it a quick scan and we’ll both be out of here.”
Deborah tipped her chin down and leveled her gaze over the rim of her glasses. “If you’re going in the Army, get used to dotting your i’s and crossing your t’s. All right, Mr.—Jack Alton Stratton. Short for John, right?”
“No, ma’am. It’s Jack.” He didn’t explain that he had given himself the name Jack, and it stood for everything about him: present and past, pride and humiliation. Probably too much information for this nice lady on this beautiful afternoon.
But she didn’t press for more details, and he’d known very few situations where politeness and a smile weren’t at least worth a try—especially where the ladies were concerned.
“Hair?”
“Brown.”
“Eyes?”
“Two.”
She frowned.
Jack flashed a handsome grin. “Brown.”
She looked down but the corners of her mouth ticked up. “Six foot one and one hundred eighty pounds?”
“Sure am.”
“Age?”
“Seventeen. For the next couple of days, anyway.”
“Yes, I see you have a birthday coming up.” Her finger stopped at the box for birthplace. “What town were you born in?”
Jack’s back stiffened. He hated filling out paperwork; it reminded him of all the basic things he didn’t know about himself. What was his real name? Who was his birth father? Where was he born? Facts most people took for granted, Jack ached to know.
He lowered his voice. “I don’t know. It says ‘unknown.’”
“Enough with the comedy routine.” She pointed with her pen to remind him of the line of people waiting behind him—people who, her eyebrows seemed to be implying, all had real names and families and hometowns. “Birthplace?”
“I’m not kidding. I don’t know. My mom thought we should write something instead of just leaving it blank.”
“Your mom doesn’t remember where she gave birth to you? Not even the state?”
Jack bit into his cheek. “I was…abandoned by my birth mother.” Jack hated that word, abandoned.
Her cheeks blushed a pale pink. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
Jack stood up straight. “It’s all right. The truth is, I don’t know the answers to half the questions on that form.”
“I am truly sorry.” She cleared her throat, and when she spoke again, her tone had softened. “And this is your present address?” She clearly felt bad, and that was the last thing Jack wanted. He’d had his fill of pity.
Jack pointed at the address. “That’s the happy ending to my story.” He worked up a smile. “After a few years in the foster care system, I got adopted. Which was a bit of a miracle, considering I was eleven.”
“Miracle?” She looked confused.
“I was past the expiration date. Most people want to adopt babies.”
She nodded.
“But I ended up with the best parents a kid could have.”
She returned his infectious smile.
Jack had called the Strattons Mom and Dad from the moment they took him in. His parents loved him, and he loved them back. But the scars of his past had never completely healed.
Deborah quickly skimmed the remaining pages. “Your mother did a great job filling out this form. Okay, stand there.” She pointed to a spot on the floor in front of a tripod camera.
Jack hurried over. “Do you have a mirror?”
She looked at him quizzically. “What for?”
Jack fussed with his thick, dark brown hair. “To try to look semi-decent.”
Deborah chuckled. “Darling, you’re as handsome as a movie star. Trust me, you don’t need a mirror.”
Jack’s chest puffed out and the flash popped. “Thanks. When will—”
“Two to six weeks.” She slipped Jack’s photo, check, and paperwork in an envelope, printed off the mailing label, and dropped it on a stack.
Jack gave her a little salute as he headed for the door.
“Jack!” she called out before he reached the exit. A flurry of emotions crossed her face before she solemnly said, “Thank you for serving.”
Jack straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. He nodded politely and thanked Deborah for her help.
As he walked out of the old post office, he stopped in front of a large mural that he must have passed by hundreds of times in his life without really seeing it. Four World War I soldiers in their doughboy helmets charged up a hill, ready to face death. As Jack stared into the eyes of the young soldier in the front, the full impact of his decision to join the Army started to sink in. In three months, he would be going to basic training. After that, Afghanistan, or possibly Iraq. Even though they’d serve a hundred years apart, he and the soldier were now inexorably linked.
When he pushed open the door into the bright June sun, he smiled. I have three months. One last summer. All his worries about his future blew away in the summer breeze, and he knew exactly what he wanted to do after getting the passport application out of the way. He walked across the outdoor courtyard and headed for his pride and joy.
His 1978 Chevy Impala. He’d worked one whole summer for the parts and another summer to make the body pristine. He’d gotten some help from the guys at the high school auto shop. Jack’s dad helped, too. They’d both spent days at a time under the hood, or pulling dents and sanding rust. To Jack, the Batmobile or even the Millennium Falcon had nothing on his ride.
And, oh, that heavenly shade of blue. But there was still a long list of stuff on the internals Jack knew he needed to fix: the piston rings were worn, the water pump was grinding, and it needed a valve job. The outside was mint, but the inside was messed up.
Just like Jack.
He hopped in and rubbed the dash. “Hey, baby.” Talking to the car wasn’t superstition, it was a greeting. He gave her another pat and started her up. To save some money, one of the guys in the school auto shop had suggested he use an old motorcycle muffler they had out back. As Jack’s foot hit the gas, the car sounded like someone had mated a monster truck with a Jaguar.
Traffic was light for the middle of the day. It took only ten minutes to drive over to Hamilton Park, where he and Chandler had planned to meet. The park was the centerpiece of downtown Fairfield. A jogging path surrounded the eleven hundred acres, thick with trees. A wide, paved walking trail studded with benches formed a figure eight through its gentle slopes, and at its center was a stately four-tiered fountain.
As Jack drove down Main Street, he saw a line of police cruisers and several unmarked Ford Crown Victorias parked in front of the H. T. Wells office building. Jack sat up in his seat to get a better view of what was happening. There were no fire trucks or ambulances, which ruled out a bad traffic accident or a medical emergency.
Two men in suits followed by a patrol officer escorted a pair of sobbing women to one of the Crown Vics. Jack scanned the area around the building but saw no police tape marking the scene of a crime. He wondered what it was all about—as always, already mulling over several potential scenarios.
Farther down the road, on the southwest corner of Hamilton Park, were a large, run-down parking lot and a couple of aging basketball courts. Jack pulled in and shut the car off. In this area, an addict was liable to smash your windows looking for loose change, but Jack knew if they didn’t see anything valuable, typically they would leave the car alone. Still, he popped the door panel out with a snap, dropped his favorite sunglasses inside, then snapped it shut. If someone did break in, they’d take whatever was in the glove compartment—nothing of value—while Jack’s secret compartment was as safe as the Batcave.
He headed toward the basketball courts, where about twenty people sat on aluminum bleachers, watching a pick-up game. It was easy to spot Chandler’s light-green T-shirt and the Army Strong slogan stretched across his massive chest; even sitting, he towered over everyone.
He waved Jack over. “You’re late!”
“You can’t be late for a pickup game.”
“Where were you?”
“Applying for my passport.”
Chandler shook his head. “You’re late for that too—I got mine last week.”
“Well, it’s a good thing I have you to mother me.” Jack fist-bumped his friend.
Chandler gestured to the attractive girl with long, dark hair sitting next to him. They’d been going out for a few weeks, and since Chandler seemed pretty taken with her, Jack had engineered a double date with them for tonight so he could meet her.
“This is Makayla.” Makayla extended a slender hand. Her high cheekbones accentuated her big brown eyes. “Makayla, this is my brother, Jack.”
Makayla shot a puzzled glance Chandler’s way and seemed to hesitate, thinking of what to say, before finally settling on, “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Don’t believe a word of it.” Jack shook her hand and sat on Chandler’s other side.
Makayla leaned closer to Chandler and whispered, “He can’t be your
brother.”
“Yep. Jack’s my brother.”
Makayla folded her arms and lifted her eyebrows.
“What?” Chandler shrugged.
“Clearly he is not your brother.” Makayla peered around Chandler to look Jack in the eyes, then leaned closer to Chandler.
Chandler’s eyes danced. “Why do you say that? Don’t you see the resemblance?”
“But he’s—he’s—”
“What?”
“He’s white!”
Jack opened his eyes wide in comic surprise, then frantically patted at his arms. “I’m white?” he squeaked, jumping up and down.
The mostly African American spectators turned around to look, though most of them had seen the two friends—and some of their antics—at previous games.
Chandler pulled Jack back down and said to Makayla in a mock-serious whisper, “We’ve never told him.”
“So you’re … adopted?” Makayla asked.
Jack’s mouth fell open. “Chandler? Is this true?”
“We never told him that either,” Chandler said with a straight face. “Leave it to my Aunt Haddie. We must be the only poor black family that goes and adopts a white kid.”
“Shut the front door. You’re playing me.” Makayla gave Chandler a hard push. Jack and Chandler smiled at each other. Since they were seven, they’d pulled this joke dozens of times.
“Technically,” Jack said, “I’m his foster brother. I lived with Chandler, his sister, Michelle, and Aunt Haddie—you’ve met her, I guess—for four years before the Strattons adopted me and I moved out.”
“In my mind, Jack’s blood,” Chandler added. “I hate foster labels or any of that junk. Jack’s as much family to me as Michelle. Not a foster or anything else.”
Jack put his arm around his friend’s massive shoulders and made a goofy face. “Can you see the resemblance now?”
Makayla laughed. “Now I can. Even though you two are as black and white as yin and yang.”
Detective Jack Stratton Box Set Page 52
