What would you really say if I called you, Roxy? If I told you what was happening, and that I can’t find anything funny about it. You’d certainly be at Nanna’s house—you always claim it’s for her own good—and vow to help me in private, while waving over my grandmother and writing down exactly where I am. The wheels in your head would be full tilt, figuring that you could cram in a car with Nanna with Mom and Dad and be in Little Rock by 2 a.m.
“I know how dangerous I am,” is all I would have to say to you to stop your pacing. “I overheard you and Nanna, Roxy. I know.”
You would feign ignorance, but you’re a terrible liar. Even you would have no clever comeback when I explained how I eavesdropped on you and Nanna in the most raw of moments.
No one wanted Nanna to be alone with Grandpa Tom in those final days of hospice care. He’d been brought home from the hospital to spend his last days in his own bed. Of course we knew that Nanna wouldn’t be alone, as Roxy had practically moved into the guest room, refusing to go home until she was thrown out.
It was after midnight. Grandpa had long since stopped speaking, having been given the powerful palliative sedative that eased cancer patients through their last moments, spoon-fed to him lovingly by his wife. No one knew how long he might live, so Aunt Stella had gone home with his parents and brothers, trying to figure out how to notify Aunt Kate when none of them had spoken to her in years. Roxy and I had kept a vigil with Nanna upstairs, sitting in the dim light while the clock ticked loudly. I’d dozed and I guess started to snore. Roxy told me to either go get some caffeine or she was going to put a clothespin on my nose.
I’d gone downstairs to make coffee and laid my head on the old farm table, and the next thing I knew, I woke to a stiff neck and the digital clock on the microwave reading 3 a.m., the coffee now cold. I trudged up the stairs, hearing their voices and quiet crying from where the door was slightly open. I’d reached for the handle when I heard Nanna say, “He was the only one who knew what we’re capable of doing.”
My hand had hovered. “Hon, don’t go there just now. Give yourself a moment to just say goodbye,” Roxy said, her own voice broken.
“I said my goodbyes to him a hundred times over the past few days. He’d become so sweet, you know, especially after he got sick. Death does that, the doctors said. It softens a person, knowing the end is near. I told him every hour how much I loved him, and apologized for everything I’d done all those years ago. All he would do is hold my hand and say how important it is that I keep up the work. Our work. Now that he’s gone, I can’t imagine doing it without him.”
“Shhhh. Come on, now. Let’s call hospice, and you need to tell the girls–”
“I need to tell them everything. Everything. And William deserves to know. What I can do. What he can do. What they did to us.”
“Lynn, you still don’t know what they did to you—”
“It’s there. Inside me. Inside William. Even if we don’t know what it is, I know what I read in those computer files and saw in those interviews. I know what I saw underneath the hospital, with all those people. What we’re capable of doing. And once it comes—the pain, the bleeding in the ears—it means we’re activated. Not long after, we’ll die, and so will anyone near to us.”
“Lynn, don’t do this now. You know nothing has happened in fifteen years. You wouldn’t have remained by your family if there was any hint that you were dangerous. No one’s been activated or anything like that—”
“And William. He’s different. He has it in him too. He’s the conduit. I don’t even know what that means, but he’s the final stage; the trigger to activate all of us.”
“This isn’t the time. You’re exhausted—”
“Tom kept telling me that it was important that we just lived our lives. That William knew he was loved. And he was right.…”
He could hear Roxy move in to comfort her. I’d stepped away from the door, feeling numb.
The binge that came next lasted a few days. Everyone thought I was just grief drinking. Maybe I was. Grief for my grandfather, and grief knowing I could be the one to ultimately cause the death of my own grandmother—
William realized his hands had stopped shaking. His body temperature had calmed. Funny thing about anxiety attacks—they kick your ass when they show up, but you don’t notice when they’ve slipped out the back door. Or maybe I’ve found a way to trump whatever disaster I’ve encountered at the moment by reminding myself that something even worse could be happening at any moment.
“Is this is a pity party for one or are guests invited?” the imagined Roxy said, looking over her glasses at him.
Truth be told, I don’t feel sorry for myself. I’m just angry. With the tabloid reporters, with my stupid and repeated mistakes, and with not knowing the truth after all this time.
After eavesdropping on Nanna and Roxy’s conversation, and knowing his grandmother was in a deep stage of grief, William had stifled his nagging questions. He’d saved his frustrations for the blowout with his brothers after his drunken arrival at the funeral, a version of the same fight they’d had almost their entire lives. Greg had torn into him about his lack of respect. Brian then stepped up to the plate, calling him irresponsible, complaining how everyone coddled him. He even went so far as to say that if William hadn’t run off into the woods that night he and Greg were camping, their lives would be completely different.
Then came the shoving and a toppled lamp, William chastising Brian for never taking his side, saying that his brother knew the truth too. Brian had seen the light, he’d seen what happened.
Brian had picked up the lamp and hurled it against the wall, asking how long he was supposed to feel guilty, that he had been just a kid too, who was completely traumatized about seeing his brother disappear in what seemed to be a bolt of lightning.
He’d held his index finger inches from William’s face, saying how tired he was for feeling responsible for him, and that he needed to take ownership for his actions for once in his damn life.
William had told both his brothers to go to hell and jumped in his Jeep. He’d meant to drive to the suburb of Bellevue and the condo of a girl he’d casually dated—dating being a prim word for it. But instead he’d passed her exit and kept driving west.
He’d realized it, then—how the weight of the world slowly lifted from his shoulders with every mile. The farther away he drove, the more he understood that the anxiety had a message for him: Get the hell out of Dodge. It had plagued him for months: a nagging feeling to escape, to move on. It was bold and determined, starting with a whisper and then shouting that he was in the wrong place and needed to leave. He’d tried to ignore it, but once he succumbed, he was almost euphoric.
He’d practically leapt off the interstate when he’d reached Little Rock. This is it, every membrane of his body had hummed. This is where you’re meant to be.
Even broke, with no job and no prospects, he’d felt the calmness. The sensation stayed with him, despite the longing for his family and living in a crappy trailer making minimum wage.
And who was he kidding? For the first time in his life, he was free. Free of speculation about what happened to him, free of the stares, free of the burden of being that UFO guy.
The nightmares, however, reminded him that some things you can’t outrun. Whether it was guilt for abandoning his family or the troubling headlines of the day soaking into his subconscious, the dreams were inescapable. But at least—unlike the anxiety and panic attacks that were always waiting and could linger for an hour—when he woke, it was a clean cut. And he had a job to go to that filled up the days, and books and baseball at night.
Now that life was over.
I’ve done it once. I can do it again, he thought. He’d rest until first light. Once he got what he needed from the trailer, mostly the cash he’d kept hidden in his closet, he’d head further south, maybe to Louisiana. Especially with all the storms they’ve been experiencing, it would be easy to get lost in New Orleans
.
William put his hands behind his head. If the dreams did come tonight, at least there would be no one to hear him scream.
* * *
She could hear the footsteps of the knockoff Allen Edmonds echoing loudly across the marble floors of the Dirksen Senate Office Building. She knew without a doubt that it was Frank, and that meant he would be wearing the cheap shoes, designed to look expensive but with thin soles that would wear out soon because he wore them every single day. Even when he stood on the other side of her desk, sliding across the latest research on human trafficking in Tennessee, she could smell his feet.
Frank sweated a lot in her presence.
Kate Roseworth hoped to have several hours alone, given that a looming budget battle in the upcoming fall session promised yet another government shutdown. Her secretary and staff, including Frank, had gone home some time ago, which meant she could play some Leon Bridges and try to focus without interruption. She’d actually made some serious headway and was on the trail of what seemed to be some common-sense budget cuts that would be appreciated by her constituents. Her calculator was deep into an equation when she heard the footsteps.
“Come in, Frank.”
He could not hide the astonishment on his face that Kate had been able to identify him before he had even stepped inside. Her index finger diminished the volume just as Leon and his background singers were crooning into the first chorus of “River.” When she looked up to see that his eyes had changed from surprised to full-on puppy dog, she sighed.
She knew the look and the variations of it. The interns were the worst, the ones who elbowed their way to try and score a semester or two working for Washington Barbie. It was her least favorite of all the nicknames they didn’t think she knew about: Tennessee Tornado, Killer Kate and the Devil Wears Prada Pantsuits. Even with a master’s in public policy from Brown, a career as a policy wonk in Washington, and now a decade of service as a US senator, she still heard the whispers about herself behind the backs of her colleagues’ hands.
Kate knew how she appeared to Frank right now. Late night, sexy music, hair in a ponytail, glasses, and chewing on a pen. Hot For Teacher, she once found scrawled on a colleague’s fiscal notes, with an arrow pointing in the direction of her desk in the senate chamber.
Yes, Frank, that’s why I’m here so late. To seduce you. Come on over here and let’s read through some budget appropriations to really turn up the heat.
“What is it, Frank?” she said, turning back to her calculator.
He cleared his throat. “They found him, Senator.”
“Found who, Frank?”
“Your nephew.”
She saw him visibly flinch when she blinked and looked over her laptop at him. She didn’t mean to have the look; her mother always said it was a genetic trait she inherited from her father. It meant she gave a laser focus to whoever was speaking, her eyelids closing ever so slightly, with daggers glinting in her pupils.
“How do you know this?”
“Came across in an alert.” He held up his iPhone.
She glanced at her own phone. “I don’t see any alerts from the Post or CNN.”
He swallowed. “It wasn’t a news alert. It’s from … Hollywoodextra.”
The look changed now, and she saw him almost wince. That website had an almost criminal obsession with her family, frequently romantically linking her to actors and athletes, all of whom, in reality, requested meetings with her to discuss their environmental causes.
“Where is he? Is he OK?”
Please say he didn’t get a DUI.
“Little Rock. They didn’t say. It only read that they found him.”
Please say he’s not in jail.
“How? Did they source police?”
“No. It just reads that it’s an exclusive. The alert said that the site would broadcast their findings at midnight.”
Good to know that a high-priced private investigator couldn’t find him, but some crap entertainment website could.
“I just knew you’d want to know,” he said softly.
“Thank you Frank. I appreciate it. I’ll handle it from here.”
“Is there anything—?”
“I’ll see you at seven. I’d go straight home, tomorrow will be a mess. No detour to the Blackfinn.”
He nodded once and stepped out, barely concealing his disappointment. He was obviously giddy with excitement to gossip with the other staffers still at the bar. They’d lean in, ties loosened or hair let down after long days at the hill. How did she react when you told her, Frank? Was she pissed?
Yes, Kate thought, sitting back in her chair. She is pissed.
A familiar twist came from her stomach. Do you know yet, Anne? I should call you, right now. He’s your son, after all. I know you and Chris must have been agonizing this year, and Brian and Greg too. Once Mom finds out, she’ll be so upset. Or is this just part of a plan—
No. Keep your distance. That’s the past. Focus on the present.
Her fingers toyed with the handle of her right-hand desk drawer. She pulled it open, fished around under a sea of pens, and found the business card, stashed where she’d put it a year ago, when she’d thrown the disgusting man out of her office.
She held up the card.
Flynn Hallow. Agent. Division of the FBI.
The rest of the FBI had no interest in locating the grandson of a deceased senator, who had vanished again, this time of his own accord.
As much as she hated it, she picked up the phone, quickly dialing the number. It was near midnight. There’s a chance he’d be asleep—
“Hello?” came an extremely alert voice, full of phlegm, which immediately broke into a cough.
“This is Senator Kate Roseworth. I’m assuming you’ve heard the news?”
“Of course. We dispatched our agents as soon as it came out. It’s good that you called—”
“It’s actually not.” She pivoted in her chair. “I don’t want to be making this call. I don’t want you to think I want anything at all to do with you. If this call is being recorded, I’ll have you sued. Let me remind you we are a two-consent state. And I do not give my consent. But I think you know what this phone call means.”
“I do.”
“I want this contained. Do you understand? I don’t want to see him on the news. I don’t want to see my family interviewed. I don’t want there to be a single dose of coverage beyond the fact that he was found. And more importantly, I want him safe. Can you absolutely guarantee to me that you can contain this and bring him in?”
“We will do our best, Senator.”
“This is all off the books, Agent. Bring him in, and I’ll meet with your director. But if you botch this, then all bets are off. I want him unharmed. I don’t care if you have to scorch the earth around him, but I want my nephew brought to me.”
THREE
William swerved the Jeep so hard to the right that dust and rock billowed like the aftermath of an explosion beneath his tires. He slammed the gear into park, placing one foot on the rusted metal step outside the absent door to stand, leaning on the frame of the Jeep. He could barely see above the rows of cotton.
“Oh shit,” he muttered.
In the still dark hour of five a.m., he counted the lights of ten satellite trucks on the road before his trailer. Accompanying the massive white vans looked to be forty—no, fifty—cars. The top lights of the cameras revealed photographers lining the dirt road like paparazzi on a red carpet, along with a crowd of people, many holding signs. He watched as three vans more raised their masts.
William sunk back into his seat.
He pulled out the phone from his console and got online, grinding his teeth at the sparse Wi-Fi that meant the search bar moved at a crawl. Hollywoodextra, the reporter had called it, yet nothing came up for a television outlet. What did appear was a website.
He shook his head. Hollywoodextra.com is what she had actually said.
Everything in the media world h
as changed, his Aunt Stella had cautioned during her tutorials. TV will still wait and promote a story for days trying to build hype and ratings. But don’t think a camera crew is just for television anymore. If a story is big enough, it becomes all about clicks. Get it verified and get it online, get it on Twitter, get it on the app. Don’t waste a moment.
When the website loaded, it practically screamed the headline: “WORLD EXCLUSIVE: WILLIAM CHANCE’S SECRET LIFE IN ARKANSAS.” At the top of the accompanying story was an icon revealing it had been shared six thousand times—
From around the bend of the field behind him came the sound of tires tearing down the dirt road. The doors of the Jeep were still stored inside the trailer, along with his hat. There was no way to conceal himself from whatever news crew was approaching.
He turned to his console, hunching completely over and pretending to look for something. Please, please let that photographer not have gotten video of his Jeep for people to recognize it.
He almost exhaled in relief as he heard the car fly past. But then rubber squealed, followed by an abrupt U-turn. William jammed his key into the ignition, but the car had already pulled up directly beside him at a sloppy angle. The only way to drive past now would be to barrel through the cotton or hit the car itself.
He expected the bright call letters of a local station on the side of the car, or perhaps a generic Honda rented from the airport. Instead, the sleek curve to the roof, along with the vent just above the back wheel, made it apparent that someone was driving a $200,000 Porsche on the back roads of Arkansas.
The driver-side window rolled down. “Are you freelance? I’m trying to find the house where that Chance kid is living … oh crap.”
William fired up the Jeep, whipping his arm around the headrest of his passenger seat to back up.
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