Fugitive Family

It was—no missed calls.

It was Amber’s need to be with other kids and Greg’s need to take his mind off his cell phone that drove him out of the house.

It was the wise and healthy choice. It was getting to the point where he wanted to smash his fist right through the screen as he listened to newsman after newswoman read the teleprompter, condemning him.

Unfortunately, softball wasn’t enough of a contact sport to take the edge off his anger.

When Lisa showed up at the softball game, Greg noticed but didn’t have time to really think about it. He focused on his daughter’s whereabouts while listening for the cell phone stashed in his back pocket. He didn’t care about the dirty looks his teammates would give him should it ring. He needed to hear what Burt had to say. He wanted to hear that there was some hope of getting his life back!

The first game of the season already hinted at a shutout. The score was 10–2. His team had heart; the other team had a cutthroat mentality.

In some ways, it was Greg’s fault. He’d missed every practice. He blamed himself. Somewhere, somehow, he’d really antagonized somebody, and that someone had taken over his life.

Sometimes he didn’t feel as if he deserved to have fun. God, it seemed, and the people of Sherman, Nebraska, had other ideas.

The center fielder was the town sheriff, a man named Jake Ramsey who made Greg nervous by his offers of friendship. Even he managed to make it to more practices than Greg, which only implied that it was better to chase criminals than be considered one.

“Batter up!”

Greg glanced over at Amber, then picked up his bat and ambled to the plate. He was able to concentrate by reverting to an old trick. The ball zoomed toward him; it was the bank robber’s, the murderer’s, head. He swung; the ball clanked at impact, and in a flash Greg went around first, second, third and thundered across home well before the ball made it back to the infield.

He hadn’t even realized that two people were on base.

Maybe the game wouldn’t be a total embarrassment after all.

“Good going,” Perry said. The mayor’s assistant had struck out. Looking at the bleachers, Perry did the politician’s wave, almost as if he had just homered and driven in three runs.

The sheriff patted Greg on the back. “Way to get us in the game.” The applause died down, and Greg looked over to where Amber was playing. She hadn’t noticed the hit, but it looked as if Miss Jacoby and Miss Magee had. They were both smiling as if he’d struck gold.

Miss Magee waved.

Greg looked over at Perry.

The man was an idiot.

If Rachel were here, if Rachel could be cheering Greg on, he would notice. He would hop the fence and give his wife a huge kiss, wave at the fans and grin in satisfaction. Not because of the hit but because of the kiss.

Stop being an idiot, Perry, he urged silently.

The next player made the third out, and Greg trotted to third base. For the next ten minutes he had plenty of time to think because, for some reason, the other team wasn’t hitting.

This was his second turn at coed softball with the church’s team, thanks to a stubborn minister. And—surprise, surprise—he enjoyed it. Tonight was different. In some ways, he needed to be here, away from the Internet, away from the gut-wrenching fear that tied him to the house and to his memories.

Yup, this was God’s way of making sure Greg knew that life was for the living.

When the minister had first approached him about playing on the team, right after Greg had joined the church, Greg said, “No, thanks. I really don’t have the time.”

Then Amber started in. “Daddy, Tiffany’s daddy plays. It’s every Friday night and while her daddy plays, her mommy lets Tiffany go to the playground.”

Tiffany’s mom said the same thing the next Sunday. Then Amber mentioned that her sworn enemy’s mother played. “Mrs. Maxwell does first base, Daddy. Mike says she’s the best player. I don’t really care about that, but I told him you’d be the best.” Amber’s eyes lit up at this point. “While his mommy’s on the field, his daddy watches him on the playground. He could watch me, too.”

Then Mike’s dad made a point of shaking Greg’s hand every Sunday. Now there was a man with a perfect life. He was a dentist. His wife spent her time taking care of the family, organizing every wedding and baby shower the church put on and playing softball.

The second time the minister approached him, Greg could almost hear Rachel say, “Playgrounds—complete with friends—are a wonderful thing for an only child.” Rachel had emphasized over and over that just in case Amy…

Think of her as Amber.

…just in case Amber turned out to be an only child, they had to make sure she did lots of things with friends, kids her age. Outdoor things. Not so much television.

So Greg had joined the team, and even though he hadn’t played since high school, he discovered that the team really needed him.

And Amber really needed him playing on the team. Greg looked over at her again. She was having a blast. She’d had a red Sno-Kone and it was all over her face; Mikey looked like someone had dumped a barrel of cherry juice on him. Tiffany managed to look like a princess.

The inning ended. Greg had a while before his turn at bat. He took his cell phone and a hand towel from his bag and, with Amber in tow, headed to a nearby drinking fountain to wash her face.

“I’m not dirty, Daddy.”

“No,” he agreed. “You’re not dirty, you’re sticky.”

She giggled.

“Why is it,” Greg asked, “that Tiffany can eat a Sno-Kone and not get it all over her?”

“Her Sno-Kone is special. Maybe if you buy me another one, this time mine will be special.”

He should say no but her eyes were glowing, her cheeks were flushed, and she wasn’t suffering.

As he was.

Somehow, in the midst of everything, that brought him to his knees—his daughter was thriving. He handed her a dollar and remembered again why he couldn’t turn himself in: two reasons.

One, Greg didn’t know if he could face the day without Amber. He’d been a good father while Rachel was alive, but he’d put work first. Now Amber came first and he truly knew the challenge and joys of fatherhood. No way was he playing Russian roulette with the foster-care system.

Which took him to reason number two.

No one would watch Amber with the intensity that Greg did. No one. And Greg knew that just to get at him, whoever had killed Rachel wouldn’t hesitate to come after Amber.

FIVE

“The media jumped the gun, excuse the pun, by claiming that Rachel and the security guard were ‘probably’ killed by the same gun,” Burt said over the phone late Friday night. “And I’m guessing you missed the word probably when you heard the story.”

“Most people fail to take note of the word probably,” Greg responded. “Also, most people figure if the news reported it, it’s fact.”

“Until the authorities get their hands on the gun, nothing can be proven. What the authorities do believe is that both Rachel and the security guard were killed by a 9 mm semiautomatic pistol.”

“I didn’t own a 9 mm semiautomatic pistol,” Greg said.

“What the cops know is that you didn’t own a registered gun. They’re not convinced that you didn’t get one off the black market.”