by CJ Lyons
Walden continued, "Greally couldn't sign off on a protective detail but there's no way in hell either Galloway or Taylor will leave their posts."
Her people. Loyal—to a fault. She had to protect them, so if things went bad they didn't get caught in the crossfire. "Thanks, Walden."
"You can thank me tonight. Nick invited me to dinner. Said you were getting pizza from Travanti's. I like mine with mushrooms and black olives."
Lucy hung up the phone. Her family was safe for tonight. But what about tomorrow?
Chapter 3
Five dollars wasn't enough to buy everything on Adam's list, so he did what he planned to do in the first place: steal what he needed.
He hated doing it. It was clear from the half-stocked shelves and empty aisles Mr. Cooperman wasn't doing well. Adam promised himself he'd pay back everything after he found his dad. Dad always had money; that was never a problem. The problem was getting him to spend it.
Adam splurged and spent part of the five dollars on a luxury item not on his list: a container of chocolate milk. By the time he left the Safeway, it was almost six and already full dark. The wind cut through the narrow street, teasing him with the threat of snow, but he was warm enough in his layers. Except for his hands and feet. He wasn't sure if those would ever be warm again.
He could have stolen a car, but didn’t want to risk it. It was only a mile or so. He walked through downtown on Main Street, actually the only street that ran through the three blocks New Hope called downtown.
Downtown—heck, the entire town—was never what you'd call busy, but it was different now.
The real estate office had closed. The colors on its flyers in the window had faded from time and the glare of the sun, as if it'd been a joke to start with. Henderson's florist's shop was now a coffee shop, and from the lights on the second floor of the century old brick building, they'd either rented out the apartment there or they'd left their nursery and moved into town. He hoped it wasn't the second. He remembered running through their fields of lavender, swishing the fragrant stems, his palms smelling like fresh beginnings.
He drank his milk and ate a shoplifted Slim Jim. Wondered how many times his dad had been out on these streets alone at night, heading into the darkness. Adam was glad he hadn't taken a car. Dad always said cars were nice when you needed them, but no one ever got arrested for walking.
Following in Dad's footsteps. That was his plan. Tonight he would set up camp in his hidey-hole. The letter should have reached Lucy by now. Hopefully she and the other cops would be here by tomorrow—the next day at the latest. Then the TV and reporters.
And finally, Dad. Dad would hear the news, know it was Adam. He'd come and get him, take him back.
Maybe even smile that secret smile that said he was proud of his boy. Adam would about kill for a glimpse of that smile.
As he walked, imagining the look of pride on Dad's face, Adam didn't feel the cold anymore.
He reached the end of the sidewalk and began walking along the curb, one foot in front of the other, balancing, arms stretched wide, like he had when he was a kid.
Then he came across something surprising: A traffic light instead of the old four-way stop sign at the intersection of Main and Route 4004. The new light blinked amber in one direction and red in the other.
It seemed out of place given the only traffic as far as the eye could see was Adam walking west and the taillights of a truck headed south. But somehow it fit. That was New Hope, never giving up on tomorrow.
He crossed the street, no longer Main Street, now just a nameless county road, and found another change. The old Dairy Treat had been remodeled. It boasted a large sign out front: Huntingdon County Sheriff's Department. The lights were off, the parking lot empty. Only one lone streetlamp between the front door and the curb lit the squat cinderblock building.
Adam stepped over a mound of snow at the edge of the lot and crossed over neatly plowed macadam to the front door. It had the sheriff's star in gold, shining against the blackness beyond the glass door. Office hours 8am to 4pm, closed weekends and holidays. In case of emergency call 911. Please ring bell for assistance.
They never had a police department in New Hope. Never thought they needed one. Not until four years ago. Then he spotted the small brass plaque mounted on the wall beside the door. It read: In memory of Marion Caine.
It didn't list any of the other dead women. They never found the bodies, so he guessed they couldn't confirm their names. But Lucy had had a list of possibilities.
He traced his fingers over his mother's name. The people of New Hope thought she was a hero. The cold stung his eyes as anger mixed with grief. He pounded his fist sideways against the plaque, punching his mother's name so hard the embossed letters embedded themselves in his flesh.
He loved his mother. He missed his mother. But she wasn't a hero. She'd chosen to go there, even though she knew what she was risking. She'd chosen. Chosen to leave Adam. Chosen death.
Her voice wove through his anger, calming and soothing as it always did. "I can't help myself, baby," she said in that singsong she used whenever she wanted his forgiveness. "Can't help what I do. I just love the man so much."
They'd hug and cry and he'd forgive her. Because he knew exactly what she felt. Like her, he'd do anything for his dad.
He just loved the man so much.
<><><>
Most nights Lucy loved walking into their house, a renovated Victorian on a decent sized lot, nestled in the slopes of West Homestead. So much so that some mornings lately, it took everything she had to force herself to leave the safe haven of her family.
Tonight as she pulled past Taylor sitting in a gray Taurus, blending into the rain and mist, she felt anything but tranquil. Her teeth ground together while she turned the ignition off, searching the premises for any danger before leaving the vehicle.
Megan, of course, had no such anxieties. She bounded from the car with her usual noise and energy. Lucy lunged across the seats to stop her, but it was too late. All she could do was grab the pizzas and hustle after her daughter, one hand on her weapon.
Not exactly the homecoming she'd envisioned when she left for work this morning. She walked inside the kitchen, following the trail of discarded clothing and soccer equipment Megan left in her wake. Megan made it as far as the hallway before succumbing to the need to fall on the floor and play with Zeke, her new Australian shepherd puppy. Boots, the orange tabby Megan had adopted, looked on in disdain.
"I still don't get why I couldn't go with everyone else. Just because I'm the youngest shouldn't mean I can't hang out with everyone else on the team," Megan said when she came up for air.
"Please come clean up your mess." Lucy sidestepped another argument as she deposited the pizzas on the counter and put her guns away. She used to safe the Glocks first, but after September, she now left one loaded on top of the refrigerator and the other in her bag. She kept another in the nightstand upstairs. Nick hated having loaded weapons in the house, but Megan was a better shot and more responsible about them than he was. He refused to do more than learn how to handle a pistol safely, so he suffered in silence.
"In a minute." Megan's voice was muffled by puppy slurping.
"Now, please. Your dad will be home in a few minutes and he's bringing company."
"Company? Who?"
"Walden."
"Cool. I like his stories." Everyone Lucy worked with fascinated Megan, although she acted terminally bored if Lucy dared to mention work herself. Megan appeared in the kitchen, puppy in arms. "He really misses his wife, doesn't he?"
"Yes. She died over Thanksgiving, so this is a tough time of year for him."
"Then he should come to dinner more often. He promised to teach me how to make sweet potato pie." She reached for the top box of pizza but Lucy shooed her away.
"Feed the animals, pick up your clothes, and get cleaned up."
Now came the inevitable eye roll. "Yeah, yeah, yeah."
"Homew
ork?"
"Done." Megan poured food and fresh water for the animals, then scooped up her discarded items on her way past Lucy, shoulders slumped as if the dirty shin guards and sweatshirt weighed more than Sisyphus's boulder.
Lucy couldn't resist. She grabbed Megan from behind, planted a loud kiss on the top of her head before she could escape. "Love you, sugarloo."
"Mom." Megan pulled free. "I'm not a baby anymore."
"I know," Lucy whispered as Megan clomped up the stairs, leaving Lucy alone with the gobbling puppy and the cat eying the pizzas.
<><><>
"Exactly how serious is this?" Nick punctuated his question by waving his slice of pepperoni-sausage-onions in the air. "All this was just routine precaution, standard operating procedure, right?"
Lucy exchanged glances with Walden. He shoved another bite of pizza in his mouth, leaving her to break the bad news. Probably better that way, anyway.
"Nick, Megan," she began. Megan looked up, still sulky from being forced to skip the after-practice get together with her soccer teammates. "I'm not trying to scare you, but we need to take this seriously."
"But you guys get threats all the time," Megan protested. "Like you always say, the world's filled with crazy people." She caught herself. "Sorry, Dad. You know what I mean."
"This one's different. I think we should go away for awhile—"
Megan stood so fast she almost knocked her plate off the table. "No! Mom, I'm not missing soccer. It's not fair! You can't make me."
"Megan Constance Callahan," her father admonished in a voice he seldom used. "Sit down and listen to your mother. She knows how much soccer means to you, but your safety comes first."
"Can't we move to a hotel or something?" Megan asked in a calmer voice, hands folded together, mirroring her father's posture. "And you could give me a bodyguard. How about Taylor? He's cool. No one would ever think he's with the FBI."
"Hope you never tell him that," Walden said with a smile.
Taylor prided himself on being a "G-man" and dressing the part. No matter it made him look more like a junior advertising exec than a federal agent.
"This isn't like the movies, Megan," Lucy protested.
"Wait. She has a point. We could move out of the house. My office has plenty of space."
Lucy stared at her husband. He often accused her of falling into the psychological trap of denial, but now who wasn't facing facts? Thankfully Walden took this one.
"That might be problematic. It's the first place anyone would look for you."
Nick straightened, his posture rigid. "I'm not abandoning my patients."
"Nick—"
"Not negotiable, Lucy. This family has sacrificed a lot for your job. Moving, changing schools, even—" His Adam's apple bobbed as he glanced in Megan's direction.
Lucy reached across the table for his hand, knowing he was remembering September.
He slid free of her grasp, grabbing his napkin instead and wadding it into a tight rock. "Even missing time with you because of your devotion to your victims and their cases. You can't ask me to be any less devoted to my patients. They're counting on me to be there for them and I'm not letting them down."
There was nothing she could say to that except guilty on all charges. She had uprooted them time and again because of her job. When she took the promotion here in Pittsburgh, she promised them she would be home on time and take less risks—exactly what the FBI wanted of her as well. Yet here she was, putting their lives on the line. Again.
She couldn't ask more of them. And, as much as she'd like to, she couldn't keep them locked up forever. The best she could do was find the bastard behind this, whether it was someone inside the Bureau gunning for her job or some psycho-nut out on the streets taking potshots at her.
"Okay," she surrendered. For now. She'd figure out some way to keep them under surveillance.
Nick jerked his chin up, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Megan hopped up from the table and leapt to Lucy's side and hugged her.
Walden caught her eye as he calculated how to free up manpower to form an unofficial protection unit, and took another chomp out of his pizza. "We'll make it work," he said after he swallowed.
Lucy pushed away her half-eaten slice, no longer hungry.
Chapter 4
Once he left the road and entered the shelter of the Stolfultz's cornfields, Adam's fear eased. No one could hurt him, not once he made it to his special spot, his thinking cave.
He was only ten when he first found it, running away from a pair of bullies who chased him on their bikes from the school playground on the other side of the farm. Using the terrain to his advantage, he ducked over and under fences, letting the July-high corn cover his tracks, and finally escaped into the woods.
New Hope lay in the narrow end of the valley, sandwiched between two forks of Warrior Ridge. Limestone caverns riddled the ridge, some of them extending for miles beneath the surface. Grownups warned kids all the time not to go into the caves. There were terrible campfire stories about kids who wandered inside the mountain, never to return.
Like the two teens who broke into Echo Cavern on a dare, climbing over the wrought iron padlocked gate that guarded its entrance. Adam had only been eight at the time but he still remembered the look of stricken grief on the faces of the adults when they brought out one kid on a stretcher, his leg bent at a horrible angle, crying for his friend who'd fallen down a crevasse.
They never found the second boy's body.
Adam was a cautious kid. The bullies called him scaredy cat because he liked to think about all the angles before committing himself to action. His dad just called him slow. But on that July day, running through the woods even though his pursuers had long ago given up, he'd done something brave and bold. Like his dad. He went into a cave.
Not just any cave. This one was hidden. Secret. Its entrance blocked from view by a tall rectangular boulder. You'd never guess if you ducked your head and held your elbows by your side that two steps later you'd be in a wide open space, cool and sheltered and safe.
That was just the antechamber. The foyer, Adam called it, liking the idea of his cave being a home. There was the master bedroom—his room—just off the foyer, the floor smooth and sloped up just enough so it was never wet even when it was storming outside, a rock the perfect size to use as a table or bed, natural ledges in the walls to store his stuff.
His cave wasn't as big or deep as Echo Cavern, but it was perfect for Adam. Beyond the foyer was a tiny stream. Depending on the time of year, anywhere from a trickle to wide enough you'd have to jump across the cold, fresh water. Crawl over and around some boulders and rock ledges and you could follow the stream down to a wider cavern inside the belly of the mountain. There were giant stalactites and deposits of zinc sulfide that glowed, making the whole place spark with magic.
The stream was wider here, rushing and noisy, and a tiny bit dangerous—enough to make the journey an adventure. Cross over to the other side, scramble up through a hole in the wall, and there was a second entrance. This one shielded by a wall of tumbled boulders too high for Adam to climb when he traced the outside opening, but it was nice to have the additional sunlight coming in from above. Inside the second entrance was a sudden drop off, a trap for the unwary.
Adam spent most of one summer—his last summer in New Hope, although he hadn't known it then—exploring that pit. He'd been obsessed with it. With the possibilities of an endless chasm that could transport him deep to the center of the earth, just like in the books he loved to read, old ones by Jules Verne and Edgar Rice Burroughs and Arthur Conan Doyle and HG Wells.
He'd been disappointed to find it was only around ten feet deep. Just a shimmy down a strong rope he eventually replaced with a ladder borrowed from Stolfultz's barn. That was okay. Other adventures waited at the bottom of the pit. He'd found a bunch of arrowheads, a mound of charcoal, the outline of a man's hand in what appeared to be dried blood, and a bone that looked just like the shinbone on the hu
man skeleton in the science classroom at school.
Lying on the cold, hard floor of the pit, his head filled with amazing stories. Indians using his cave as their last outpost against a warring tribe. Or maybe settlers defending themselves against marauding Indians. Outlaws chased by a posse, only to starve to death down here when they couldn't climb back out. Adam dug for treasure, but the floor was hard, unyielding, and he did little more than scratch at it.
He never did find any other bones—another mystery that made the pit irresistible.
Adam stockpiled his cave with survival necessities. He used his mom's Space Age Air Tite storage bags to protect his stash: a sleeping bag, matches, disposable lighters, a bunch of candles of all sizes and shapes, comic books and books and magazines, a whole bag of Hershey's miniatures he was saving for a special treat, cans of soda, bottles of water, cans of his favorite foods: tuna fish and Dinty Moore and baked beans and Spaghettios, a notebook and pencils, spare clothes, one of his dad's pocket knives, a couple of flashlights with spare batteries, and the neatest thing of all: a little radio/flashlight that you powered with a hand crank. The only station it got was one that talked about the weather and then only outside the cave, but still pretty cool.
At least he thought so when he was ten. Now he just hoped those space age bags really had protected his stuff—and that no one had taken it—so he could get a good night's sleep, nestled warm and safe inside his sleeping bag.
Maybe even read one of his old Mad magazines. Would they still be funny?
He stopped at the edge of the woods. He trusted himself not to get lost, but the forest that seemed so welcoming and friendly when he was a kid now looked dark and menacing. He risked turning on the tiny keychain LED flashlight stolen from the Safeway but it didn't help.
Was anything the way he remembered it? It was as if he'd lost himself during the past four years. Not just grown up. Like he wasn't who he thought he was and never had been. It was all a dream—no, not a dream, he'd definitely been awake, had the scars to prove it—maybe a mirage?
