Sunrise Destiny

by Mark Terence Chapman

  We sat on the stools talking about our predicament. When I got frustrated with that subject, I tried to steer the conversation to Shari’s childhood. I knew she didn’t want to think about it, but I hoped talking it over might prove therapeutic. Besides, what else did we have to do?

  Instead—I’m still not sure what happened—that devil woman somehow turned things around and got me talking about what happened six years earlier. The one subject I didn’t want to talk about.

  “It all started with the Constantino murder. Do you remember that?”

  “Sure. Big high-profile Mob-style execution. What was it about, money-laundering?”

  I shook my head. “Supposedly he was skimming from the Mob and they objected—strenuously.”

  “Yeah, I remember now. That was your case?”

  I nodded. “Mine and Danny’s. We were so excited at the time. Thought it might get us both to Detective 1st if we cracked it and pulled down whoever was responsible for the hit.” I grimaced and shook my head. “Instead, it was the worst thing that could have happened.”

  Shari reached over and squeezed my hand. “Tell me.”

  I almost smiled at the frown creasing her beautiful face. Then I thought about Danny again and grimaced.

  “We ran down all the clues, talked to all the witnesses—the ones that would talk to us, anyway. We put all the pieces together and narrowed down the list of suspects. It looked like we’d catch the sonofabitch who ordered the hit pretty soon—a few days at most. We figured it went all the way to the top and we’d take down old man Tagliano. We were gonna be famous.”

  I paused to take a deep breath. “That’s when Danny got an anonymous call from someone claiming to have proof of who offed Constantino. It was the break we’d been looking for. Danny called me at home and told me to meet him at the bridge on the north side of Davis Park, where he was going to talk with the informant. When I got out to my car, I had a flat tire and my jack was missing.

  “There was no way to change the tire in time. Cammie wasn’t home, so I couldn’t use her car. I finally took a cab to the park. I was only ten minutes late, but when I arrived Danny was gone. Or so I thought.”

  I had to swallow the guilt blocking my throat. “I left, thinking the meet was a bust and Danny had gone home. I called him and got his voicemail.” I closed my eyes and hung my head. “The next morning, a park worker found Danny’s body hidden in some bushes not fifty feet from where I stopped looking.” I swallowed again. “He’d been shot four times.”

  I paused for a deep breath before the big finish. “The coroner said it took him at least half an hour to bleed to death. He tried to scratch something in the dirt. It looked like it might have been an S, but we couldn’t be sure. I guess he was trying to identify his killer.”

  Now I choked back tears. “If only I’d looked harder, I could have saved him. I—”

  Shari squeezed both hands this time. “It’s not your fault. You had no way of knowing.”

  “I-I know, but I could’ve saved him! I should’ve hung around. I should’ve—” I closed my eyes and steeled myself to finish the story.

  “I was questioned about what happened as part of the investigation. Routine. I explained what happened to my car. Internal Affairs checked—my tire was fine and my jack was in the trunk, where it was supposed to be. If it wasn’t bad enough that some bastard murdered Danny, he also set me up to take the fall.”

  That thought always pissed me off, adding indignation to anger. I pounded my thigh with a fist.

  “Naturally, that made them look at me more closely. Someone suggested that the S in the dirt might stand for Sunrise. Then they found twenty grand in my bank account that I couldn’t account for. Cammie had no idea how it got there either. So, immediately, I was a suspect. I was put on administrative leave during the investigation.”

  I took a deep, steadying breath. “Two weeks later, Cammie took Jeannie shopping. Cammie’s car had been acting up, so they took mine. When she started the car to leave the mall, it—” I couldn’t say it.

  “The bodies were so bad-badly burned that they had trouble fi-finding enough DNA to test.” I took a breath to compose myself. “Presumably the bomb was left for me, but...they never did find out who was responsible.”

  “I’m so sorry, Don.” Shari’s eyes were as wet as mine.

  I drew in a ragged breath. “There wasn’t enough direct evidence against me for criminal proceedings in Danny’s death, but the review board recommended dismissal anyway. Too many suspicious findings. Stuff I knew nothing about, but they didn’t believe me. At that point, I didn’t care anymore. My whole life had gone up in flames. The job was the least of my worries. All it did was remind me of Danny, Cammie, and Jeannie, anyw—” I couldn’t finish.

  “You poor dear.” Shari pulled my head to her shoulder and held it there until my sobs faded away.

  * * * *

  The next day, Karsh decided that it was safe to leave the bay. The police patrols had stopped searching the immediate area. Once we reached the open ocean, we were able to head for deep water.

  Shari and I had decided to try to make a new life for ourselves somewhere along the coast. I used my implant to check out some of the smaller towns up north. We finally settled on a sleepy village called Sweetwater. It was big enough that we didn’t think everyone would know everyone else in town, and far enough off the main highway that they didn’t get a lot of tourists or drop-ins there. More importantly, it was more than three hundred miles from Scar and the cops who were busy looking for us. We hoped that would be far enough.

  That night, we said goodbye to those aboard Galla. Karsh and Allara ferried us ashore, where we said our final goodbyes. I don’t think the Azarti cry, as such, but I sensed sadness from them. Shari certainly let loose with the waterworks, and I must admit to a degree of mistiness myself.

  I’m not one for long, drawn-out goodbyes. [So long, Karsh, Allara. I’ll miss you both. Thanks for all your help.]

  [Again, my friend, it is we who are in your debt.]

  [Let’s not start that again. Just...take care of yourselves, okay? Stay away from the Brotherhood.]

  [That is our intent.]

  Allara hurled herself at me and wrapped her arms and legs around me in that strange hug the Azarti have. [Goodbye, Sunrise. I will miss you.]

  [Bye, little one. You grow up and make your daddy proud, okay.]

  She projected enthusiastic agreement.

  [Before we leave,] Karsh said, [we have gifts for you.]

  [Karsh, that’s completely unnecessary.]

  [Perhaps; however we wish you to have them in the hope that they serve you well in the future.]

  He removed his threl and handed it to me. Allara gave hers to Shari.

  [Are you sure?] I asked. [Won’t you need these?]

  [Once we are back aboard our ship, we will have no further use for them. Besides, we have others.]

  [But, what do we feed them? How do we care for them?]

  [Merely keep them moist and immerse them in the sea every few days and they should serve you for many years.]

  Now Shari spoke up. [We’ll do that. Thank you for these wonderful gifts.]

  Allara replied. [It is our pleasure. Thank you for our lives.]

  Nothing remained to be said. I shook hands with Karsh, and Allara hugged Shari.

  Then our two Azarti friends turned and dove into the sea. I sensed both joy and sadness, and then they were gone.

  Shari and I turned toward the town and began walking.

  The cops wanted to recapture, convict, and execute us, the Mob wanted to skip right to the execution, and a shitload of aliens would be all too happy to save them both the trouble. We were safe for the moment, but what were the odds of eluding them all forever? Life seemed likely to come to a sudden and violent end, and sooner rather than later. We had little money, the Azarti were leaving, and we couldn’t risk contacting our human friends.

  We were on our own. But at least we had each
other.

  PART TWO

  “Gentlemen, I give you a toast. Here's my hope that Robert Conway will find his Shangri-La. Here’s my hope that we all find our Shangri-La.” — Lost Horizon

  Chapter Twelve

  The next sixteen months were some of the happiest of my life.

  Shari and I posed as Geri and Tom Sykes, married five years. Our most immediate problem was shelter. We had enough money between us—left along with the food and clothing by Shari’s friends—to last us a week or two, but no more.

  We located a rooming house that was taking boarders. All we had were the few items in the waterproof bag Karsh had given us. There was an awkward moment when we explained that we had no luggage because of the house fire that destroyed everything we owned.

  I wasn’t sure Mrs. Kennedy would buy the story, but she was the trusting type. When Shari chokingly told her we’d lost our baby girl in the fire and we couldn’t stand to live in the same city anymore, she nearly burst into tears. She pooh-poohed and tut-tutted over us “poor dears” and tucked us into our new digs. It was a nice, old-fashioned room with bright colors, frilly curtains, and poufy pillows. It wasn’t at all to my taste, but Shari loved it. The room came with free meals, and the grandmotherly Mrs. Kennedy was a terrific cook.

  The first night there, I slept like a baby in Shari’s arms. After a filling breakfast the next morning, we set out looking for employment. Unfortunately, we had two things working against us: One, we couldn’t keep doing what we’d spent our entire adult lives doing for a living. Scar and the cops would certainly be watching for people working as hookers and cops/security guards/private eyes. Two, any “real” job would check references and would need valid IDs for tax purposes. We had neither, so we had to look for alternative ways to earn a living.

  I’d always been good with my hands, but I still couldn’t find steady employment—just day labor working for a local homebuilder who was willing to pay in cash. After a few weeks, I’d put away enough to buy some tools and set myself up as a handyman, mending fences, building bookcases, and the like, for the folks in the neighborhood. As with day labor, folks paid cash for these chores, which worked out fine for me.

  Everywhere we went we looked over our shoulders, wondering if this person was watching us too closely, or that person might be taking notes. It wasn’t a comfortable way to live, but it was necessary.

  Shari had a harder time finding work. The best she could do at first was a few babysitting gigs. In her spare time, she entertained Mrs. Kennedy and the other folks in the rooming house with her piano playing. She played wonderfully, and her whole face lit up when she was wrapped in the music. I didn’t even know she could play. As I found out, she’d had lessons from age five until she left home.

  One day, after listening to a rendition of something by Tchaikovsky, Mrs. Kennedy asked why “Geri” didn’t teach piano.

  Shari’s eyes lit up. “That’s a wonderful idea! Why didn’t I think of that?”

  Within a month, she had six boys and girls coming to the boarding house for lessons twice a week each. Mrs. Kennedy was gracious enough to let Shari use her piano.

  As she put it, “You two have been through so much. It’s the least I can do. Besides, I love listening to you play and it’s been too long since I’ve had children running though the house.”

  Within three months, Shari made enough from piano lessons and I earned enough as a handyman that we no longer needed our other jobs as babysitter and day laborer. We had established ourselves as respectable citizens of the town.

  Then, one day Shari and I were doing our wash at Bitty’s Launderette when I spotted a man loitering across the street in front of Mel’s Olde Tyme Ice Cream Shoppe. The man was tall and lean, dressed in denim pants and shirt, with a stern set to his face. He could have been a cowboy or a killer; there was no way to tell. He strolled back and forth aimlessly along the sidewalk. It looked like he was sucking on a milkshake, judging by the amount of effort he had to put into it. Years of experience on stakeouts told me that when someone was trying to look that nonchalant, he was probably waiting for someone or for something to happen. Still, I didn’t want to worry Shari until I was sure something there was something to worry about.

  Mr. Milkshake kept glancing in our general direction. That got my hackles up. I’d previously sized up the launderette and knew there was a back way out, if we needed it, but I hoped we wouldn’t. I continued to watch him, getting more nervous by the minute.

  After twenty minutes or so, Milkshake dropped the rest of his drink in the trashcan by the curb and started toward us. Uh-oh.

  “Damn! Look at the time, Geri. We’ll have to hurry if we’re going to make our appointment with the real estate agent.” That was our prearranged signal in case of danger.

  We grabbed our still-damp clothes, threw them in the laundry basket, and walked briskly toward the back of the launderette. We didn’t want to attract too much attention from the other patrons by running. I watched Milkshake in the mirror on the back wall as he neared our side of the street.

  The fight-or-flight instinct is an amazing thing. My heart began to pound. Adrenaline had my senses on high alert. Now certain that we’d been made, I glanced at Shari, whose face was tight with worry. We were unarmed, except for my pocketknife, and had no idea what we were up against.

  Milkshake reached the sidewalk just outside the launderette. Three more steps and he’d be at the door. After that, there was no telling what he’d do. Definitely time to go. We picked up our pace.

  The old junker we drove was parked out back. It didn’t look like much, but I’d tinkered with the turbocharged V8 until it purred like a kitten. A touch of the accelerator and it roared like a lion on the prowl. I would put it up against anything a hit man might have at his disposal.

  As we reached the hallway leading to the back door, I glanced once more at the mirror, only to see Milkshake turn and climb into a red convertible sports car that had just pulled up with a screech, driven by a twenty-something brunette. The lingering kiss she gave him told me she wasn’t his sister. I grabbed Shari’s wrist to stop her. We waited a moment longer by the door until the pair drove off, laughing. If they were part of a hit, it was the damnedest one I’d ever heard of.

  I relaxed. Seeing me do so, Shari relaxed as well. We shared a nervous chuckle, relieved that it was a false alarm, but aware of how easily it could have been something nasty.

  * * * *

  After six months, we’d saved up enough for a place of our own. We found a small house to rent, with—of all things—a white picket fence around it. Mrs. Kennedy threw us a “moving-in shower,” as she put it.

  Shari was positively giddy as she shopped for curtains, throw rugs, and knickknacks for the new place. It was all clearance-rack stuff, but it was enough to turn an empty house into a home. She threw herself into gardening and soon we had flowers everywhere.

  It wasn’t fancy, but it was all ours. No more worrying about calling out each other’s real name loudly enough for people in the next room to hear, or having to feign tears at inappropriate times to maintain the illusion of grieving parents.

  There was a swimming hole a mile from the house. It was nothing more than a good-sized pond surrounded by stately oak and maple trees, but there was something magical about it. There was even a tree with a rope the kids used to swing over the water, just like something out of Norman Rockwell. I began to think we were living in a picture postcard. We couldn’t have been happier.

  I taught Shari to swim there. With the threl on, she knew she couldn’t drown; that eliminated the fear factor. Because of my last encounter with Scar, when the threl saved my ass, I took to carrying it with me everywhere, sealed inside a plastic bag to keep it from drying out. I insisted that Shari do the same. Amazingly, we found that in the presence of the threls, and with concentration, we could sense something of one another’s thoughts. I don’t know whether the threl acted as a sort of amplifier, or communicating with the Azar
ti had forced us to exercise parts of our brain that we hadn’t used before. Either way, it was both eerie and comforting at the same time. Lovemaking took on a whole new degree of intimacy. Not only were our bodies intertwined, but also our minds at the emotional level.

  After a year, we were finally sure we were safe from the outside world and began thinking about buying a house on the outskirts of town. A few more months and we’d have a down-payment.

  After fourteen months, we discussed having children. We even picked out names. Life in Sweetwater was so unlike living in the big city. Instead of dodging traffic and bullets, and avoiding mobsters and cops, we embraced our new lifestyle of porch swings and Sunday services, political discussions at the barbershop and afternoon teas with the Ladies’ Auxiliary.

  In the sixteenth month, Shari informed me that she was pregnant.

  “Say what?” I was stunned.

  She flashed a wry grin. “I said…you’re going to be a daddy. What do you think of that?”

  “I-I—”

  Her grin began to melt.

  “My God, that’s wonderful!”

  Her trembling lips spread into the most beautiful smile I had ever seen. I pulled her to me and we made love; first, with passion, and later tenderly.

  I hadn’t allowed myself to be this happy in years.

  We threw ourselves into finding a house big enough for three—maybe four or five. We also contacted some people we knew back home who could generate official identities for us. We’d need papers and tax IDs that could pass more than a cursory glance if we were going to qualify for a home loan.

  * * * *

  Twelve days later, I held the screen door open with my foot while I turned the doorknob. My other hand was occupied holding my toolbox.

  “Honey, I’m home.” I sniffed for a hint of what Shari might be making for dinner. She’d taught herself to cook, with the help of Mrs. Kennedy and some friendly neighbors.