Fugitive Family

“All right,” the foreman said. “But call if something happens.”

The mad urge to laugh caused Greg to duck his head as he climbed behind the wheel. His boss’s words echoed: Call if something happens. Something had already happened and every day it happened again and again in his thoughts, his memories, his dreams.

He needed to get home, turn on the television, log on to the Internet and call Burt Kelley. No, first he needed to get to his daughter, make sure she was safe, find out what she’d already heard.

Still, because it was expected, he promised, “I’ll call if anything happens.”

The foreman nodded, and Greg started his truck before his boss could say anything else.

Six months ago, a trip to the restroom had changed Greg’s life forever. And no one on the construction crew knew how much. They couldn’t know that just five minutes earlier Greg Bond, whose real name was Alexander Cooke, heard a truth he’d been both expecting and dreading for six months.

His wife was dead.

The authorities believed he’d killed her.

Some unknown entity had wiped out Greg’s world and kept coming back for more.

Greg checked out the school’s parking lot and put his foot on the gas.

It wasn’t until he plowed into the passenger side of the first-grade teacher’s car that he realized he hadn’t been looking for traffic; he’d been looking for cops.

“Have I got the perfect guy for you!”

Those words, spoken barely an hour ago by one of her fellow teachers, didn’t bode so well now. The perfect guy had just put a major dent in Lisa Jacoby’s light blue Chevy Cavalier.

“I can’t believe you hit me. Didn’t you hear me honk?” Lisa shook her head as she surveyed the damage. The front bumper was twisted and bit into the passenger-side tire. The fender had crumpled like cardboard. “The cops won’t even come,” she said, mournfully. “This is a private parking lot.”

He looked at the street, first right, then left, and muttered, “I’m so sorry.”

She’d been in fender benders before, and usually the people involved looked at each other or looked at the cars. Not Greg Bond—he seemed more concerned with the scenery.

“We need to call our insurance companies,” she suggested.

It took him a moment, but he brought his attention back to her and this time he was the one to shake his head. “That’s not going to work. I don’t have car insurance.”

“He’s gorgeous, about thirty, single, his little girl will be in your class.”

Gillian Magee, the teacher who thought Lisa needed a date, was more than right about Mr. Bond’s looks. Definitely gorgeous, with shaggy black hair, he looked about thirty but hadn’t mastered the clean shave yet. He wore a wedding ring, but everyone knew he was a single father.

He was everything Gillian had advertised. Lisa figured that out yesterday when he’d introduced himself.

“Oh, man. You’ve really done it now.” Another construction worker joined them. His hair was black, too, but not shabby.

“Vince,” Greg said, looking more distressed over his coworker’s involvement than over his truck’s attack on her vehicle. “We’ve got everything under control. Thanks for coming over, though.”

“You really are dizzy? Man, I thought you were making it up. You plowed right into her.” Vince bent down and looked under Lisa’s bumper. “Too much damage to be hammered out and you’re going to need a new tire and rim.”

Greg winced before turning to Lisa and saying, “I’ve been meaning to get insurance. Look, you know who I am, and you have a whole construction crew full of witnesses. I’ll get your car towed to a garage, and I’ll pay for the damages. Every last dime. I promise.”

Lisa knew what her sister, Tamara, the lawyer, would say. But, then, Tamara would detain the president of the United States if he didn’t have proper insurance documentation. There were no gray areas in Tamara’s world—only black and white. Her other sister, Sheila—the rebel—would simply blow the whole thing off. The car could be fixed; no one was hurt. End of story. Sheila was a writer. She’d incorporate the whole accident into a plot. Then she could even write it off on taxes.

Vince frowned. “Greg, you don’t have insurance. Man, that’s lame.” He pulled a cell from his pocket and punched a number. “I’ll call my brother. He works at a garage.”

Lisa looked at Greg’s truck. Not even a broken headlight. Soon she could hear Vince talking. His words were impressive enough. He correctly identified the make, model and year of her car. The assessment of damages sounded right. And, the words “Send a tow truck” were somewhat soothing.

Greg still studied the street.

“Am I keeping you from something?” Lisa asked, feeling annoyed. He’d hit her car, after all.

“Guess not,” he finally muttered.

Vince grinned. “Greg’s a little rusty when it comes to women. You’re the new teacher. The guys were wondering why we didn’t have any teachers who looked like you when we went to school here.”

Lisa’s cheeks flamed. She’d been in Sherman, Nebraska, all of two weeks. The first week had been spent finding a place to live. This week had been spent at Sherman Elementary School filling out paperwork, sitting through in-service meetings, and getting her classroom ready. She’d noticed the scrutiny from the construction crew, and while the other teachers laughed it off—most knew the men—Lisa’d wished the parking lot would return to normal: fast.

“How long before the tow truck gets here?” Greg asked, saving her.

“Instead of tow truck, I’ll haul it over tonight. That will save you some money.”

For the first time, Greg looked as if maybe the accident was something he should be concerned about. “How are you going to haul it?”

“I’ve got a hoist and a trailer at home. I’ll—”

Before he could finish, someone shouted from the work site. Vince grinned sheepishly. “I gotta get back. Greg, you feel well enough to drive her home?”

He didn’t wait for Greg to answer, but continued talking to Lisa, “Write down your address and phone number for me and leave a key.”

It took Lisa a moment to retrieve her files from the passenger side of her damaged vehicle. When Greg’s truck hit her car, folders had slid to the floor and the contents had spilled out. Finally she had her files together and climbed into his truck. He was still checking out the street and looked as welcoming as a grouchy pit bull.

“Are you expecting someone?” she said.

He closed her door and came around to get behind the wheel. He gave her a guarded look. “No, why?”

“You keep checking out the street.”

He didn’t answer.

“I live on Elm Street. Just past the library.”

He paused, definitely torn about something, and then said, “Do you mind if I pick up my daughter, Amber, from the babysitter first? It’s on the way.”

“Sure.”

After five minutes of silence, she realized one thing for sure: Greg Bond wasn’t into small talk. Usually, parents jumped right in, wanting to know what kind of a teacher she was, how many years’ experience she had, if she volunteered time after school, and the like. Greg didn’t ask a single question.

Even though she knew the answer, Lisa made an effort to bridge the silence. “How long have you lived in Sherman?”

“A little more than four months.”