The Orpheus Trilogy (Book 2): Orpheus: Homecoming

by Dan DeWitt

  Ethan, a true runner, had put together the playlist for him because, in his words, “You can't run to Manilow, Dad. You'll want to sit down and feel stuff.”

  A few minutes into the run, Holt had to admit that his son had done him a favor. He fell into a good pace due to the fast drum work. He thought he recognized the band once the vocals started, as he'd heard it blaring from Ethan's car on more than one occasion. Avenged something-or-other.

  It definitely worked for him.

  He wasn't one of those people who could lose himself in the run. It actually made him focus more on his surroundings. He noticed every glance, every wave, and every hello that was drowned out by the music. The national (who was he kidding … worldwide) fascination with all things Cameron Holt had died down, but in Oak Pass, he was the height of celebrity. It was much more manageable on the local level, because local people, for the most part, respected boundaries. The more they saw of him doing mundane things, the more he became just another townie, and he would be perfectly fine with that. Being nothing more than part of the scenery was just fine with him.

  In less than a half-hour, Holt had the bank in sight. He slowed his pace to a walk and caught his breath. He pulled his earphones out and headed into the bank. He held the door for another patron walking in, acknowledged the man's thank you, and then followed. The man headed right to the brochures that described the various account options, while Holt headed right to the counter.

  “Hey, Mr. Holt!” the teller said cheerily.

  “Gracie, how's things?”

  “It's Friday.”

  “Big weekend plans with the husband?”

  She smiled. “None whatsoever.”

  “Those are the best kind of plans.” He slid the checks and deposit slip over. His hand rested gently on the papers, as if he were afraid to let them go. Having grown accustomed to it, Gracie waited. He finally pulled his hand back. “Just that.”

  “You got it.” Her fingers danced over the keyboard, and he soon had a deposit slip in his hand. He saw the balance and muttered, “Jesus.”

  “You said it, not me.” She paused and furrowed her brow. She clearly wanted to say something, but held back, not wanting to overstep any boundaries.

  Holt prompted her. "What is it?"

  “Nothing. I was just thinking."

  Instead of pushing her, he asked, “I don't want this to sound weird, but do you have a break coming up soon?”

  O

  Gracie Treadwell tried to relax on the park bench while she waited for Holt to come back. She was, if not uncomfortable, apprehensive. Not because of the man, no. She found him to be a very easy person to be around. But there was something about his manner when he asked her if he could have some of her time.

  It felt bigger than her.

  She almost didn't notice when a man sat down on the far end of the bench. He smiled, and she returned it on autopilot.

  He started the small talk as he bent over to tie his sneaker. “What a day, huh?”

  “Oh, yes, it's beautiful.”

  “You look like you're waiting for someone.”

  “I am.”

  He leaned slightly toward her. “Lunch date?”

  She actually giggled. “Kind of, but not really." She didn't want to give any more details, but her eyes betrayed her and cast a look in Holt's direction. He was still in line, engaged in conversation with the vendor.

  It was his turn to laugh. He casually looked over the line, then his eyes visibly widened. “Wait, isn't that Cameron Holt?”

  She nodded.

  “The Cameron Holt is lunching with you?”

  “Sure is.”

  He chuckled. “Well, looks like he's on his way back. I'll be sure to give him plenty of room.” He got up and nodded to Holt. Holt's eyes lingered on the man's face as he passed.

  Holt sat down and handed her a hot dog that was loaded with every topping and condiment that the vendor had. The extras nearly doubled the size of the hot dog and bun. “You're actually going to eat that?”

  “I have a problem. Don't judge.”

  “Where do you put it?”

  “Hollow leg,” she mumbled through a mouthful.

  “Fair enough.” He dug into his own dog.

  They ate in silence, and Holt only spoke once he finished, because she beat him by almost a full minute. “You've seen all the checks. All the money.”

  “I've tried to not notice, but, you always seem so sad when you make a deposit. It's kind of the opposite reaction that everyone else has when they put a lot of money in their account.”

  “There's a reason I come to the bank at the same time every week. You're the only one I want to handle this.”

  “Just me? Seriously?”

  “One day, I walked in with a stack of checks, and someone told me you were out sick. I just left. Seriously, the only two people who know about this money are me and you. My wife doesn't know. I won't even let her get the mail anymore.”

  She laughed. “But why?”

  “When I got the first donation check, I pretty much forgot about it. I got two more a few days later. Then they started rolling in every day, and it has yet to stop. I can't just tear up the checks, because I'd just be shitting on these people. I certainly can't spend it, either. You've seen how much is in there … “

  “Down to the last penny, including today … “

  He stared at her and just blinked.

  “I'm good with numbers.”

  “As I was saying, I'll take the government settlement. I'll accept the fuck out of government money, because they owe me. But that other money isn't mine. You know that there have been a lot of big checks, but there's also been a bunch of five and ten dollar checks. Do you know what a check for five dollars means?”

  “I don't follow you.”

  He tapped his fingers on his knee. “It means,” he continued, “that someone wanted to give me money, but doesn't really have any extra to give, so they gave something up."

  “Why didn't you want your wife to know?”

  “You see how upset it makes me, and I'm not what you would call the most sensitive guy in the world. She actually cares about people, so this would tear her up.”

  Gracie took a long sip from her lemonade. “Okay. But why me?”

  “You're good with numbers.” His smirk was genuine, but it led her to believe that his comment was incomplete.

  “That's it?”

  “Have you ever told anyone about this?”

  She didn't have to think about it. “Nope. But it’s not my place to say, anyway. It’d be a violation.”

  “Yes, and most people in your position would’ve violated a celebrity confidence a long time ago, just to make a few bucks. I can trust you. Think about what we can do with that money. What are the best ways to grow it or utilize it to help.”

  “Help who?”

  “Whoever. The families of the dead. Children of the survivors. Someone else entirely. I trust you; so will Jackie. I think …” He trailed off, seeming to concentrate on something across the street.

  “Mr. Holt? Everything all right?”

  “Yeah. Yeah. And it's Cam, if you want.”

  “I'll do it, Cam.”

  He clapped his hands. “Attagirl. Thank you. I hate to eat, ask for a favor, and run, but I have to get back.”

  “My break's over, anyway.”

  Holt combined her trash with his and threw it away as he jogged past the barrel. He hit the opposite sidewalk and took a left. Gracie walked back to the bank, several ideas already circling in her mind. They were interrupted briefly by one overriding thought: Why was he jogging in the wrong direction?

  O

  The man hurried as fast as he could, but Holt had taken off like a shot, and he was trying to not draw attention to himself. He stopped and pulled out his cell phone.

  “I lost him.”

  The driver of the Land Rover said, “Me, too.”

  “Shit. I'll try the wallet thing.”


  “Copy. I'll make another pass on Main.”

  The man from the bench pulled out his wallet and started asking pedestrians if they had seen a guy matching Cameron Holt's description running by. The man was still a celebrity. Only two people said no, and that was because they had just come out of a store.

  He spun in a slow circle, frustrated.

  “Are you looking for Cameron Holt?”

  He turned and saw a girl of about high school age. “Yes, I am. He dropped his wallet.”

  “I just saw him take a shortcut between those two buildings.” She pointed to a wide alley between a deli and book shop. “He was limping. I think he twisted his ankle or something.”

  Park Bench pulled a ten dollar bill out of his own wallet and handed it to her. “Thanks, kid.”

  He jogged the entire length of the alley, but didn't see his target.

  On his way back, he saw something lying by the dumpster. Holt's armband. He picked it up and searched it. Everything … money, iPod, key … was still in it. He put it in his pocket and started back to Main.

  He called Land Rover and told him to pick him up.

  “On my way.”

  White lights exploded in Park Bench's eyes, and he was nearly knocked senseless by the strike to the back of his head. He was thrown roughly to the ground face-first. Still dazed, he put his hands under him to try to buck off his attacker, but was stopped by the cold metal at the base of his skull.

  “Not one fucking word.”

  Park Bench listened. He didn't think that Holt would kill him, but there was that whole PTSD thing to worry about. He relaxed as much as he could, and didn't fight when Holt pulled his hands behind his back, locked his fingers together, and clamped down. During the process, Park Bench was rolled onto his right hip and realized that his gun was gone. Held by my own gun. German's never going to let me live this down. He felt a hand slide down both of his legs, presumably looking for a secondary weapon.

  He heard a voice say, “Tino? You here?”

  He heard his own gun being cocked and Holt saying, “On the ground. Now.”

  German sounded as surprised as the man on the ground felt. “What the fuck?!?”

  Tino felt the gun being pressed into his neck again. “You might want to tell your friend to listen.”

  He winced. As confident as he was that Holt wasn't a murderer, the longer this went on, the greater the chance of bullets flying. He tried to sound conversational. “Just do what he says, Germ.”

  German must have listened, because Holt said, “Don't move,” and the pressure on his hands was released. He heard footsteps, the ruffle of fabric, and then a magazine being ejected, along with the one in the chamber. “You, Tino, get up, walk until I tell you to stop, then drop to your knees. Look at the ground the whole time.” He did as instructed. German was already on his knees, hands behind his head. Holt had just put them in a position where, if either one of them tried anything, he could put them both down in about one second with zero problem.

  “Jesus, great job, Tino. You give him your lunch money, too?”

  “Eat me, there's a reason they sent two of us. He's good.”

  German apparently thought he was whispering. “Still, this is embarrassing. The guy's a fossil.”

  Holt said, “My ears work just fine, numbnuts.”

  Tino looked at Holt for the first time. The guy was imposing enough when he was just out for a casual jog. With a gun in his hand, he was absolutely terrifying. His legs were set in a shooter's stance, but the gun wasn't pointed directly at his captives. Tino took that as a good sign that he and his partner weren't going to die right at that moment.

  He motioned to Tino. “Start talking.”

  German, the senior of the two, said, “We represent-”

  Holt cut him off. “I already don't like you, so you should just shut the fuck up.”

  Tino had to stifle a laugh.

  “Who are you?”

  “Can I reach for my ID?”

  Holt nodded, but raised the sidearm. "Get his, too." Tino reached into his front pocket, pulled out his badge, did the same with his partner's, and tossed them both at Holt's feet. Holt picked them up without taking his eyes off of the men. He glanced at the badges.

  “OSI?”

  “Office of Special Investigations.”

  “I know what OSI is, kid. I was Air Force for years. Which I'm not anymore, by the way. So what is OSI doing in my town tailing me?”

  “I realize I'm not in a position to be asking things, but are you satisfied we are who we say we are, and we're here on business?”

  “I don't doubt you're OSI.”

  “Then can we get up?”

  Holt considered this. “All right. Let's head someplace public.” He held up Tino's SIG Sauer. “I'll hold on to this for now, though. Get up.”

  Tino and German got up stretched their legs out. German, who had said nothing since Holt had shut him down, asked, “Can I have my gun back, at least?”

  Holt tossed German's gun to Tino, but kept the magazine. “Nope. You want the rounds, come at this fossil. Now grab a table at that cafe across the street. I need to make a call.”

  They found an open table and sat down. Holt dialed and spoke briefly to the person at the other end. “Hey. I need you to have your special friend run a check for me. Mark German and Jerry Constantino. Confirm that they're Air Force OSI, and anything else that I may want to know. Thanks.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Don't worry about it.” A waitress approached. Holt ordered an iced tea. His new dining companions abstained. “Now, for the last time, why are you here?”

  German began, “What we're about to tell you will be public shortly, but for the time being is classified. Just telling you this implies your consent to confidentiality. Some senators have formed an ad hoc committee to explore the possibility of …”

  “… of returning to the island and, what would they call it, 'depopulating' it or something like that?”

  German and Tino exchanged a glance. Tino said, “How could you know that?”

  Holt took a sip of his tea. After he swallowed, he continued. “It was only a matter of time. There's potentially a huge threat there. Securing it is only a temporary fix, and whoever takes lead on it will score big political points.”

  “You're right,” German continued. “The belief is that the island needs to be scrubbed completely. No zombie left alive, so to speak.”

  Holt put on an exaggerated appearance of shock. "Whaaaat? You mean that half-assed bombing didn't do the trick? They don't want to risk aerosolizing the virus and ending the world again?"

  German shrugged. "My orders don't include having an opinion on that."

  "I bet."

  Tino picked up. “We were sent here to gauge you. See what you're about.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Our boss wanted to make sure you're not just rep, that you didn't become some sort of legend based on nothing more than a slick public relations campaign.” German said. “I can confidently report that's not the case.”

  Tino nodded emphatically.

  “I appreciate the vote of confidence. Let's just cut to the chase. The answer's no.”

  “Come on, Holt,” Tino started, and was met with a cold look. “Mr. Holt. We haven't even asked you the question yet. You don't know what they're offering you. You don't even know who's asking.”

  Holt wiped his mouth with a napkin and tossed it down on the table in preparation to leave. “In order. You want me to run, or appear to run, whatever op you're planning. I'm now pretty flush with cash, so the offer won't impress me. And I don't give a flying fuck who's asking, because, whoever it is from the President on down, I don't owe them an audience. Look, you boys seem okay, and I realize you're just doing your job, but forget it. I'm done with that place. I respectfully decline.”

  “Will you at least speak to the Colonel? I can call him right now.” Tino almost sounded like he was pleading.

  “You d
on't want me to have to answer a second time.” He stood up and slid the gun and magazine across the table. He put his earbuds in and said, “Thanks for the drink. Now get the fuck out of my town.” He walked away, this time heading for home, trusting that his point had been made.

  German pulled a five out and dropped it on the table. He sighed and dialed his cell phone. “Ralston's not going to be happy.”

  Tino rubbed the back of his head and said, “Suddenly, Ralston doesn't seem as scary anymore.”

  Unwelcome Invitation

  It was a great day.

  For the first time in recent memory, Holt was able to cross his street and get the mail by himself. No questions, no photos, not even any neighbors in their yards … nothing. He could almost hear Martin Trager's supremely smug voice saying, I told you so. Storm over. Damn, I'm good.

  He stood in front of the mailbox and just enjoyed the silence from all things unnatural. A glance at the street in either direction revealed no approaching cars. No pedestrians. No human life of any kind.

  No, he had this gorgeous July afternoon all to himself.

  He reached in the mailbox and pulled out a thick stack of assorted envelopes and ads. The bills (no longer a problem) had been replaced by more credit offers, the shopping circulars a mere annoyance, the pleadings from local politicians immediately passed over.

  It was looking every inch the perfect day, the kind of day that might make one forget about an upcoming anniversary, especially when that anniversary was better forgotten.

  The invitation brought it all back.

  It was a horrible day.

  O

  Jackie rolled over, not quite conscious, assuming that her arm would fall across her husband's sleeping body.

  It hit cold sheets, and her eyes popped open a moment later. She propped herself on one elbow and squinted around the room, which was softly illuminated by the overhead bathroom nightlight. “Cam?” No answer. “Cam?” she repeated, as she got her feet under her and slid into her slippers. She pushed open the door to the bathroom, which was unoccupied.

  Jackie opened the door to her son's room. Ethan and Rachel were fast asleep. The same was true for her parents.