Fugitive Family

Church seemed like a staple of the Sherman community. Gillian had been more than surprised when Lisa not only turned down the invitation to church, but also admitted to not attending at all.

“What do you do when you’re lonely?” Gillian had asked.

Lisa didn’t have an answer. Until moving to Sherman, she had never felt lonely.

“Daddy, you’re on TV again!”

Greg looked up from the Internet. Since last night, and really all through the night, he’d read a hundred different reports on the discovery of his wife’s body. He’d watched a dozen videos. Yudan, Kansas, was a farm community of maybe two thousand souls—most quite wealthy. Still, as in most areas, there were pockets of poverty. A broken-down mobile home, a century-old unpainted barn, a few falling-down, deserted farmhouses.

Rachel’s body had been discovered by kids thinking that a deserted farm was the perfect place for a party. They’d been wrong. Oddly enough, the cops acknowledged that the farm was a common party destination and that the kids hadn’t stumbled upon the body because, until this particular party, the room had been locked.

The cops were pretty sure that more than twenty kids had trampled over the crime scene. Fifteen didn’t stick around to wait for the cops to arrive after an honors student with a conscience used her cell phone to call her mother.

Right now, cops were still working on the five teenagers who’d stuck around to face the music. They all had the same story. The room was always locked. No, they hadn’t noticed an odor or anything out of place. They had never seen any strange adults or cars near the place.

The nearest neighbor, and the owner of the farm, had purchased the property ten years ago, meaning to do something with it, and simply hadn’t got around to it. He didn’t know the teenagers were breaking and entering.

Greg had never been to Yudan. Until her death, he doubted that his wife had, either, even though it was only ninety miles from where they lived. Cops weren’t saying if she died before or after she’d arrived at the farmhouse.

They probably didn’t know yet.

One thing the cops did know, according to the news, was that Rachel Cooke’s husband, Alex Cooke, still on the run and suspected of snatching his then five-year-old daughter, remained the key suspect. The cops weren’t commenting on one item that the five teenagers had reported.

There were flowers in the room Rachel had been found in. Lots of flowers. Some dead and brittle. Some wilted and sad. And one bunch amazingly fresh.

Like the cops, Greg had his own suspicions. The cops thought Alex Cooke had been bringing flowers to his wife and had forgotten to lock the door.

Greg knew the key suspect was the same person who’d robbed the bank in Wellington, Kansas—his bank, the one he’d managed.

Greg also knew that the murderer was someone both he and Rachel knew. Because the flowers were the kind they’d used in their wedding. Rachel’s favorite: daisies.

“Daddy, come look. It’s you again!”

It wasn’t. The morning news simply highlighted a maggot head who six months ago had made it his business to look like Greg, like how Greg looked when he could go throughout his day as Alexander Cooke. Luckily, it was easier to change the channel than it had been for him to change their lives.

Greg took another drink of lukewarm coffee as he left his office and headed to the living room to settle down next to his daughter. He was amazed at the curve life had tossed him. Still, he knew how to play ball. It was what the curve had done to Amber that really got to him. She’d just started sleeping through the night, making friends and letting go of his hand.

Nonchalantly, he changed the channel on the television, moved closer to Amber and took her in his lap. His little girl had a best friend, two if he counted little Mikey Maxwell. She was sleeping through the night. She was actually looking forward to school starting. She was recovering, somewhat.

He wasn’t.

Together they watched an early-morning kids program. When it ended, Greg said gently, “Honey, remember, the man you saw on the news in the maggot mask is not me.”

Amber slowly nodded. “I know. It’s a man pretending to be you.” She scooted into his arms and he felt the warmth of her body, the beating of her heart. Six years old was too young to deal with everything she had to deal with. Unfortunately, six years old was also old enough to do things on her own. Like turn on the television when he’d specifically told her not to. Still, he didn’t have it in his heart to punish her.

“Daddy will take care of this,” he promised. “The only thing you have to do is not tell anybody our real names or about our old life. Not until Daddy figures out what’s happening.”

She nodded, or at least, he felt her head go up and down.

Six months ago his daughter had been full of energy, her cheeks were rosy, her smiles contagious. If she turned pale, serious, or vulnerable, her mommy was right there to lay a gentle hand on Amber’s forehead, to tickle the seriousness away or to scoop her up and shelter her.

Six months ago he’d been the assistant manager at a bank in Wellington, Kansas. Then, at least according to the police and everyone who listened to and believed the five o’clock news, he’d not only robbed his own bank, but he’d also shot and killed the security guard. Then, apparently, by accident, his mask had come off, and he’d looked right at the security camera.

Right.

The news commentators had a field day with the irony of a bank manager who had to know where the camera was, looking right at the lens.

The Dr. Phils of the world had had a field day with the kind of criminal mind that aimed a full smile at the security camera.

Right.

He’d been stuck in the restroom during the whole robbery. He hadn’t even known what was going on until he’d somehow managed to push open the door.

No one believed him.

“Today we’re staying home,” he told Amber. “Daddy has to keep track of the news.”

“Will we move again?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Will I have to go to another school?”

“Not sure about that, either.”

“I don’t like moving.”

“I don’t like moving, either.”

Unfortunately, moving was on a long list of don’t likes. He didn’t like living on the run, he didn’t like construction work and he didn’t like that whenever he called, he got Burt Kelley’s answering machine. With all that was going on, you’d think the only person on his side would make himself available.

He needed to try Burt again. He needed to find out what was happening behind the scenes. Needed to find out what had really happened to his wife.

Needed to find out if she’d been dead for six months, as the bloodstains on the living room carpet of their Wellington home implied. Or if she’d died more recently, which meant that while the authorities spun their wheels blaming him, they could have spent their time finding Rachel and maybe saving her.

THREE

She looked for Greg on Thursday, but he’d called in sick. No surprise. He, or maybe it had been the Vince guy, had mentioned a dizzy spell.

It was Vince whom Lisa saw first. Watching him meander through the elementary school hallway was enlightening. He bumped into Mrs. Henry by the cafeteria and ducked his head like a bashful schoolboy. Then he made a brief foray into the library, before finally heading for Lisa’s classroom to hand her his brother’s business card.

Just before noon, and her first break from a too long meeting, he’d come in with a status report. He settled himself in a first-grade desk—not an easy task—and folded his hands like a good boy. She doubted that he realized just how dirty his hands were. His brother, he reported, didn’t have the right fender but could find one in a few days. His brother did, however, stock the right make and shade of paint.

The tire had already been replaced.

Oh, and she was looking at just over $2,000 in damages.

The third time Vince showed up in her classroom, he’d offered her a ride home.