Fugitive Family

“Maggot head,” Amber answered.

“That’s basically it,” Greg agreed. “It’s a mask designed to look like a maggot infestation. We no longer have the mask, and I’m sorry I taught my daughter the words maggot head.” Greg gave Amber what he hoped was a stern look and then started to pick up her backpack. Instead, she scooted over and grabbed it. It was a continual power struggle of “I can do it, Daddy” versus “Honey, I’m not quite ready to let you take on the world.”

Today, right now, he didn’t care to battle. The most important thing was the fact that even though Mrs. Griffin had said the words, Amber didn’t get that her mother’s body had been found.

Didn’t get that her mother was dead.

Didn’t get that her father’s heart was broken yet again and that there wasn’t a thing he could do about it: not grieve, not scream, not even demand justice.

He didn’t have the time or the energy. Not if he wanted to keep Amber safe.

“Are you all packed?” Greg asked quickly. He needed to get out of here before the ladies asked any questions, before the news ran a repeat of his denial and the sound of Alex’s voice saying, “I did not kill my wife,” made the ladies look at Greg.

And inspired Amber to say, “Listen, Daddy, I can hear you talking.”

“Yes,” Amber chirped. “I’m all packed.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Griffin,” he said, and hurried the ladies out to the truck, wishing he could simply pick Amber up and run—anything to get Lisa to her home and him to his—but no, Amber insisted on carrying her own backpack, dragging her feet, and casting curious looks at Lisa. Well, no wonder! It had been months since she’d seen a pretty woman—any woman for that matter—get into a vehicle with her father. He’d been so concerned about picking up Amber, making sure she was safe, that he’d forgotten his own rule.

Stay as private as possible; don’t involve others.

He should have taken the teacher home first. Amber would have been fine. And this was just the beginning! Staying private had proved impossible from the moment he’d heard the news on the radio. Since the announcement, he’d been the center of attention of his coworkers—both in the parking lot and when he plowed into Lisa’s car—and now, thanks to a grub mask, he’d also piqued both Mrs. Griffin’s and Miss Jacoby’s interest.

As Greg hoisted Amber into the truck, he whispered in her ear, “Everything’s okay. We’ll talk when we get home.”

Amber nodded, scooted to the middle and started fiddling with the seat belt. Lisa reached over to help.

It was an everyday occurrence, a woman helping a child, but the sight of his little girl—short, black hair and Dora the Explorer shirt—and her teacher—shoulder-length, reddish-gold hair and dark blue dress—sitting side by side in the truck’s cab and fiddling with the seat belts gave Greg pause.

Amber’s mother should be sitting in the truck. She should be the one helping Amber with her seat belt, getting ready to send Amber off to first grade, and helping to raise Amber.

Lisa’s hair was full and straight, instead of blond and curly, like Greg’s late wife’s. Lisa was about a decade younger. Lisa probably would live to a ripe old age, watching her children grow, and bouncing grandchildren on her knee.

His wife had made it to her thirty-third birthday. She’d given birth to one child, talked about a second. She’d never see her daughter graduate from high school, let alone get married and produce grandchildren.

Rachel Cooke’s body had been discovered six months to the day after Alexander Cooke allegedly robbed his first bank and killed his first victim.

On the drive from the babysitter’s place to the teacher’s, Greg Bond didn’t say a word. He gripped the steering wheel and stared, white-faced, straight ahead. He possessed a raw power she wasn’t used to. Amber frowned at her father, confused, and then stared at Lisa with an expression of awe and fear. Finally, realizing that she had a captive audience, she opened her backpack.

“This is Tiffany.” Amber put a drawing in Lisa’s lap. “She’s my best friend.” It was a drawing of a pudgy girl with long hair in pigtails and wearing a yellow shirt and orange pants.

“I like her red hair.”

“Me, too. I like yours.”

Lisa glanced at Greg. He didn’t glance back. Good, because it meant he kept his eyes on the road.

Amber didn’t allow too much time for speculation. “Do you have a best friend?”

“I do, but she’s back in Arizona. I have lots of good friends, though, who live in Nebraska, over in Omaha. Here in Sherman, I’m starting to make friends with your teacher from last year. Miss Magee.”

“She’s nice. This is Mikey.” Another picture landed in Lisa’s lap. “He’s not nice.”

“I take it this is Mikey Maxwell? From school?”

“Yes, and he’s mean.”

For the rest of the drive, Amber pretty much introduced Lisa to all the students who’d be showing up in the first-grade classroom on Monday. Lisa managed to convince Amber that names were enough because Amber was clearly willing to divide Lisa’s future students into two categories—mean and nice.

By the time Lisa made it to her apartment, she was in the mood to buy colored pencils and a drawing tablet. She cheerfully accepted a hug from Amber and then said goodbye to Greg, who barely waved as he put his foot on the gas.

Since it hadn’t been a date, Lisa didn’t know why she was so annoyed at the way Greg had dropped her off. He didn’t see her to the door; he didn’t idle by the curb until she got inside.

Her sister Sheila was right. Men who acted uninterested were the most interesting men of all.

She was intrigued as she climbed the stairs to her attic apartment. It really was too cute for words, as was Greg Bond. In her native Tucson, Arizona, Lisa had never even seen an attic apartment. The attic in her childhood home had been a crawl space where her father stored Christmas decorations. None of her friends’ homes had boasted real attics or basements.

Nebraska had plenty of both.

Her landlady, Deborah Hawn, rented the basement apartment to a computer geek. He had shaggy hair and apparently seldom ventured out. Lisa had only seen him once. Her place—A-shaped and long, with a living room in the middle, a bedroom at one side, and the kitchen and restroom at the other—was a perfect starter home.

It came furnished. She’d only needed to buy bedding and a few odds and ends. What really sold her on the place, though, was the tiny balcony. Just big enough for a rocking chair and a little table; she could sit outside in the early evening and watch the park next to the library. There was always something going on.

Like tonight.

Lisa made herself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, poured a glass of milk and sat down outside. Whoever said it didn’t get hot in Nebraska had never been to Nebraska. She leaned her head back, closed her eyes and relaxed.

Maybe this time next year, she’d be on one of the softball teams, practicing in the park in front of her. She’d played second base in high school. Or even better, maybe in a few years she’d be chasing a toddler, and instead of living in an attic apartment she’d be living in one of the Victorians just a short way from downtown.

The evening light was fading when she finally went inside and sat down to finish the work she’d brought home. She worked on smoothing the wrinkles. In the middle of working, she came across Greg’s phone number. He had straight up and down block handwriting, no cursive, and he used a clear stroke.

She’d gone through four years of college, dated more than her share, nothing even close to serious, and none of the guys had her studying their handwriting. What was it that drew her to him? This quickly and with no reason? So far, their two encounters had to do with an overeager father and a fender bender.

Was it the exuberant way his daughter greeted him? Amber’s eyes lit up and it was as if someone had switched on the light to her whole world.

He was also the type of man who called his babysitter by her proper name instead of her first name.

Her final thought before she drifted off to sleep was that she’d almost think of him as a gentleman, if only he’d walked her to her door.

Thursday morning, Lisa’s eyes opened at six. In the hazy morning sunrise, she stretched, looked in the mirror and quickly realized that, without a car, she wasn’t going to be driving to work.

She’d been a little remiss in getting all the phone numbers she needed yesterday. And last names, for that matter. She knew Greg’s information, but all she had for Vince was a first name, and it was really his brother who had her vehicle.

A quick call to Gillian garnered a ride to work, a quick shower solved the morning’s doldrums and a quick breakfast filled her stomach.

By seven she was outside and waiting for Gillian.

No doubt Gillian, who knew everybody and everything, would not only know Vince’s last name, but also what year he’d gone to high school, where he lived, whom he loved and where he went to church.