Hide Away (A Rachel Marin Thriller)

by Jason Pinter

  “That’s from The Fellowship of the Ring,” Eric said, proud at recognizing the lines.

  “That it is,” Serrano replied. “I think you and I have a lot in common.”

  Serrano drove off. Rachel stared at the side-view mirror, watching the police station disappear into the white night, wondering where Serrano was taking them. But for some reason, she trusted him.

  Rachel thought about the last time she’d trusted a cop, and it terrified her.

  CHAPTER 25

  Serrano pulled into the empty parking lot and turned off the ignition. He sat there, unspeaking, unmoving, for a full minute while Rachel and the children waited for an explanation.

  “Look at this,” Serrano said finally, his voice full of awe and reverence. “Isn’t it just about the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?”

  “A baseball field?” Rachel said, confused. “You took us to a baseball field? In December? Have you been drinking?”

  Serrano laughed. “This isn’t just a baseball field. This is Voss Field, where the Ashby Angels play every spring. This field is where local legends are made. Did you know that six players from Ashby High have gone on to play in the major leagues?”

  “No way,” Eric said.

  “Yes way,” Serrano said. “Two of them actually had pretty good careers. Bobby Callahan made an All-Star team twice, and Ricardo Dominguez hit a walk-off homer for the Astros in the 2004 ALCS.”

  “Whoa,” Eric said. “What about the other four?”

  “Eh, let’s just say it’s a good thing they had backup plans. Let’s go.”

  “Do we really get to go on the field?” Eric said. Serrano nodded.

  “Let’s just say I know people.”

  Serrano got out of the car, and the Marin family followed.

  Voss Field was covered in a layer of glistening snow. Tall spotlights ringed the small stadium, dark in the winter, but they could still see snowflakes falling around the tall structures, reflected in the glass. The grass was long and unkempt, poking through the powder in spots, and the dugouts were covered with tarps to shield the wood from moisture.

  “This is where I played in high school,” Serrano said to Eric. “Left field. I wanted to play shortstop or third but always had problems making that long throw off a hot grounder in the hole.”

  “I played first base for a little while in peewee,” Eric said, his voice downbeat. There was sadness underneath. Serrano picked up on it.

  “What happened?” Serrano asked. Eric remained silent. Rachel cast her son a look that Serrano noticed as well.

  “Just stopped playing,” he said.

  “Mom Mom Mom Mom Mom,” Megan said, rapid fire. “Can I go make snow angels?”

  She pointed toward the infield, covered in mounds of undisturbed white. Rachel smiled.

  “Go ahead, hon,” she said, “but make sure you’re wearing your hat and gloves. Eric, go with her. And no eating the snow. You don’t know what kind of presents animals might have left in it.”

  “I’m too old to make snow angels,” Eric said as Megan made a dash for the field.

  “Well, that’s just about the saddest and most untrue thing I’ve ever heard,” Serrano said. “In fact, snow angels get more fun the older you get. ’Cause at some point you get so busy with life that you forget how much fun it is. One day you’ll wake up an adult and wish you’d spent more time being a kid. Go ahead. Let’s see what you got.”

  Eric smiled and gave a Sure, why not? look and trundled off after Megan.

  “I haven’t seen him smile like that in a long, long time,” she said softly.

  The children bounded toward the infield. Megan collapsed next to the pitcher’s mound and flung powder into the air. She hopped to her feet, packed a heap of fresh snow into a round mass, and threw it at her brother. It sailed wide of Eric, who made a larger snowball and drilled his sister in the leg.

  As they laughed, Serrano led Rachel to the empty bleachers lining the infield. Serrano wiped the frost off two seats along the first base line, and they sat down. They watched in silence as Eric and Megan played in the snow. Rachel had a look of pure bliss on her face as her children frolicked.

  “They’re great kids,” he said.

  Rachel nodded, wistful. “They are. I’m very lucky.”

  “So are they,” he said.

  “Sometimes I wonder. If they might have had it easier some other way. They’ve been through so much. Seeing them like this . . . it kills me that they don’t get to just be kids more often. Sometimes it feels like my son was forced to stop being a kid too soon.”

  “In what way?”

  Rachel shook her head. She’d come close to telling him something, Serrano could feel it. But she’d pulled back.

  “Why did you bring us here?” she asked. Snowflakes were melting on her eyelashes, the water droplets glistening. Her eyes were a gorgeous green, and Serrano felt his heart pick up the pace.

  Serrano said, “I came here that night after we questioned Nicholas Drummond. What you said to me, it made me want to come here. For the first time in a long time.”

  “I don’t understand,” Rachel said. “I apologized. But I’m not really sure what for, now.”

  Serrano breathed in. He pointed at the pitcher’s mound, just a few feet from where Eric and Megan were playing in the snow.

  “My son, Evan, died on this field,” he said. “Right there.”

  He heard Rachel take a sharp breath.

  “Oh my . . . God. I’m so sorry. I . . . I didn’t know.”

  “On the pitcher’s mound. Evan was a lefty. A southpaw fireballer. He was throwing heat in the eighties at fourteen years old. He was a prodigy. You know how rare good southpaws are at that age?”

  Rachel shook her head. Her breath misted in front of her, tears welling in her eyes.

  “But he wasn’t just an athlete,” Serrano continued. “He was smart. Smarter than I ever was. Read every book he could get his hands on. His favorites were big, epic fantasy novels. Books about wizards and warriors and dragons and magic. Books I never would have touched when I was his age. He’d sit in his room for hours at a time, just churning through those pages like he was running out of time, like he was worried he wouldn’t get to finish all the books he wanted to in his life. As it would happen, he didn’t.”

  Serrano grew silent, watching Eric and Megan playing beneath the dark moonlit sky.

  “I tried to go to every game he pitched. Couldn’t make them all with the job, but my wife, Deirdre, went whenever I couldn’t. Evan always had a parent there to cheer him on. It was important to us, for him to know we supported him. Deirdre once brought a big orange sign to a game that read EVAN SERRANO BRINGS THE HEAT! Evan was mortified, but I think deep down he kinda liked it. You know how kids are at that age.”

  Rachel nodded. “I do,” she said softly.

  “You always hear about kids getting hurt in other sports. Concussions and head injuries in football and soccer. Sure, there are all these studies about aluminum bats, how fast the ball ricochets off the barrel, but you think about it in terms of hot grounders to third. Long fly balls. Not . . .”

  Serrano trailed off. Rachel put her hand on his, gently.

  “He had a no-hitter going through five innings. He was untouchable. Then this twig of a kid steps to the plate. Billy Wootens. In the nine spot. Couldn’t have been a hair over four feet tall, couldn’t have weighed over seventy pounds. Kid looked like a red-haired noodle. The bat was thicker than he was. The kind of kid who closes his eyes and just prays to make contact. So Billy Wootens . . . he swings and misses at Evan’s first two pitches, and I swear, you could have driven a truck into the space between the bat and the ball. But the third pitch . . . somehow Billy Wootens got the meat of the bat dead center on the ball. Luckiest swing ever. As soon as you heard the ping of the aluminum bat, you knew he’d gotten all of it.”

  Serrano turned his hand over, squeezed Rachel’s, his voice full of memory and pain.

 
“There were two sounds,” Serrano said. “The first was the ping as the bat hit the ball. Now, that’s all you’re supposed to hear. Just one sound. But a microsecond after that, there was another sound. A thunk. Hard and loud and solid. It happened so fast it didn’t even register, at first. But I knew something was wrong when Billy Wootens stopped running toward first base and just collapsed to his knees and put his hands to his mouth. Then everyone else on the infield, catcher, first baseman, second baseman, shortstop, third baseman, all started running toward the pitcher’s mound. Like the fingers of a hand closing. And then the coaches ran out. And all I can see among all those people are a pair of legs, flat on the ground. Unmoving. And then it hits me. Those are Evan’s legs.

  “I don’t remember getting off the bleachers. I don’t know if I pushed anyone out of the way, but all of a sudden I’m on the field. And I’m trying to get into the scrum at the pitcher’s mound. And Evan is splayed out. Flat. Arms and legs extended. Like he’s making a snow angel.”

  Rachel felt tears slip from her eyes. Serrano bit his lip, took a breath, continued.

  “The doctors said he never felt a thing,” Serrano said. “He was in a coma for three weeks and . . . just never woke up. You know, when you become a parent, there are a million books that teach you how to do everything for your kid. How to feed them. How to wash them and change them. How to raise them. How to keep them safe when they’re too small to fend for themselves. But there’s nothing that teaches you what to do when you lose them.”

  “I’m so sorry, John,” Rachel said. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Deirdre and I, we didn’t last after that. We used to say we had an unbreakable bond. Well, that broke it. I heard she remarried. Every now and then we have to deal with old tax issues. But the life we had . . . it’s almost like it was another life.”

  He continued. “You know, I used to tease my son about the books he read. Fantasy. Magic and nonsense. As a cop, you deal in reality. Hard truths. I didn’t think there were any truths in those books. I’d tease him. A little too much, sometimes. But when Evan died, and it came time to clean out his room, I kept his bookshelf the way he did. All the well-worn paperbacks. Books he’d loved and worlds he wanted to visit over and over again. And I decided that it was time to understand more about who my son was. Why these books spoke to him. So I started to read them. I used to come home, back when we were still a family, pop open a beer, turn on the TV, and fart away the night. But when Evan was gone, I’d stay up until 4:00 a.m. reading about all those things that I used to tease him about. And finally, I started to understand. Sometimes there are truths in fiction. In fantasy. Sometimes made-up stories tell us more about who we are than reality. That was how I kept Evan alive, in my mind. When I read those books, I could hear him telling me, See, Dad, I told you.”

  “Evan sounds like he was a special kid,” Rachel said. Serrano nodded.

  “About six months after Evan died, I applied to take the sergeant’s exam,” Serrano said. “I’d been studying for a year. My life was falling apart, I was drinking too much, but I felt like this promotion would help me get back on track, in some way. I passed the exam, but Lieutenant George told me they were still holding me back. The decision was made by Constance Wright herself, if you can believe it. She met with Lieutenant George and after reviewing my file said she didn’t think I was in the right frame of mind to take on more responsibility. She was probably right. But I didn’t know it at the time. And so it pushed me even further down into the dark. I spent a long time hating Constance Wright, thinking she pushed me into that hole. When you’re messed up, you blame everyone but yourself.”

  They both looked down. Their fingers were intertwined. Kind of a silly sight, given that they were both wearing heavy gloves. Serrano removed his fingers from hers. He pointed out to the field, where Megan was dumping armfuls of snow onto a prone and giggling Eric.

  “Those kids out there, they’re special. I don’t quite know who you are, Rachel, or who you were before you came to Ashby. I don’t know who the father of those children is or why you seem like you’re ready to do battle every day of your life. But Eric and Megan aren’t part of your fight. I never got a say in what happened to my son. You have a say in what happens to Megan and Eric. You’ve put yourself in situations where they’ve been in harm’s way. And thank God they didn’t get hurt. But if you do battle every day, there’s bound to be collateral damage. Don’t let it be those beautiful kids.”

  Rachel looked down. She opened her palm. Snowflakes began to collect on her fingers.

  “I made a promise once,” Rachel said. “I’m just trying to keep it.”

  “A promise to who?” Serrano asked.

  Rachel closed her fist. And when she opened it, the snowflakes were small droplets that slipped through her fingers.

  “Someone I loved,” Rachel said. She looked at Serrano. “My children and I have been through more than you could ever possibly imagine.”

  “Then protect them,” Serrano said. “Keep them away from evil.”

  “The person who killed Constance Wright is still out there, Detective,” Rachel said. “Tossed her off a bridge like she was a piece of garbage. That’s evil, Detective. I want to find them. Prevent anyone else from being hurt.”

  “Why is that on you?”

  Rachel looked down again. Snow was gathering on her shoes. “I’ve seen what happens when evil goes free.”

  “I never had a chance to help build a future for Evan,” Serrano said. “Your kids are your purpose, like Evan was mine. I’ll do whatever I can to help protect Eric and Megan. But it starts with you. Do you really think they’d understand everything you’ve done?”

  “Strangely enough,” she said, “I think they would.”

  “Tell me what happened,” he said. “Before you came here.”

  “I can’t,” she whispered.

  “You know,” Serrano said. “I wish you’d met Evan. He would have liked you. And I have a feeling he and Eric would have been good friends.”

  “I think they would have too.”

  They watched Eric and Megan playing in the snow, their laughter echoing throughout the empty stadium. Rachel put her head onto Serrano’s shoulder. He flinched, briefly, but settled down. Let her head stay there, on him. They sat in silence, listening to the joyful shouts from Rachel’s children, both hoping the night would take longer than usual to end.

  Serrano turned his head to face Rachel. Her hair blew gently in the cold. She smiled. His heart was beating madly, so loud he was sure she could hear it.

  He turned back to the field, watched Rachel’s children playing blissfully in the night, all the while unaware of the man watching them from a distance.

  CHAPTER 26

  Three and a Half Years Ago

  The apartment was in shambles. Her daughter’s toys were strewed across the hardwood floor, which was chipped to the point where Rachel doubted she would get her security deposit back. The kitchen looked like someone had opened up a Chopped mystery basket, thrown it into a blender, and then thrown the contents of that blender into an industrial fan.

  Her son had left for school. And like every morning, she had gathered him into her arms and held him close, praying he would return home safe. She noticed that her boy didn’t hug her quite as tight as he used to. Something had been taken out of him. A spark. A boyishness. He had been forced to grow up far faster than a nine-year-old should, forced to endure the cruelty life could inflict long before he was ready to deal with it. Her daughter was still too young to fully understand. At some point, she would, but for the time being, Rachel enjoyed the moments where she played and fussed and ate and sang and yelled and bopped around like any toddler.

  But occasionally she would say, “Where’s Dada?” and it would break Rachel’s heart to once again tell her that Dada was watching them from the sky and that he still loved her with all his heart.

  Her son knew enough not to ask. And that hurt even more.


  Once the kids were off, Rachel brewed a pot of coffee and turned on the news.

  She plunked down on the sofa, hard backed and uncomfortable, and sipped her coffee.

  Rachel stretched her legs. She was still sore from yesterday’s workout. Though she hadn’t set foot in Slugfest Boxing since the night she and Myra—Evie—had been accosted, she had doubled her efforts, spending nearly the entire day at the gym, in spin classes and following online training videos. She soaked everything up. When she saw herself in the mirror, her body was nearly unrecognizable. Taut and muscled, lean and vascular.

  Her daughter loved to swing from her biceps, yelling, “Mommy, you’re like a tree!” But despite how strong she’d become on the surface, her insides still felt like oatmeal stirred in too much water.

  As she took another sip, the landline rang. She muted the television, picked it up, and said, “This is Rachel.”

  “I’m sorry, did I dial the wrong number? This is Jim Franklin from Franklin and Rosato.”

  She mentally slapped herself. She’d been spending so much time thinking about Myra—Evie—and that adopted name that she’d begun to refer to herself as Rachel.

  “Sorry, Jim, I was watching a Friends rerun, and Rachel was in this scene with Chandler, and, you know what? Never mind.”

  “No problem; it happens. My father once called me Frasier for a whole year.”

  “How are things in Darien?” she said.

  “The town is trying to move on. Folks ask about you. Where you are. Reverend Elias still prays for you and the kids.”

  “He told you that?”

  “He did.”

  “Please thank him for me,” Rachel said.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea. If I do that, it could be used against me in a court of law to confirm that I know where you’re currently residing. And I don’t want anything to even have the remotest chance of getting back to him.”

  “God forbid,” Rachel said.

  “Anyway, on a better note, it looks like the money is going to come through.”

  Rachel sat up, nearly spilling the coffee all over herself. “You’re serious.”