Fugitive Family

Luckily, Gillian—who’d already promised Lisa a ride home—arrived in the classroom a moment later, sat down at the small desk next to Vince and promptly began a three-way conversation that Lisa never would have instigated. She started with, “Does Greg Bond ever date?”

Vince grinned, his eyes crinkled, and with a cocky expression that said he wasn’t surprised by the question, replied, “Gillian, you’re still as nosey as you were when we were both in first grade. I think you sat in the front row back then, too.”

“And you,” Gillian said, “are still just as annoying and belong in the back row. Now, does Greg Bond ever date?”

“Not that I know of. He doesn’t even talk about chicks—” He stuck his tongue out at Gillian and then looked at Lisa with what had to be a pretend-sheepish expression. “I mean women.”

“He still wears his wedding ring,” Gillian pointed out.

“We’ve told him to take it off,” Vince sobered. “It’s dangerous on the job. I’ve heard of men losing fingers because of wedding rings.”

“He never talks about his wife.”

Vince nodded. “She had to have been young. All he says is that she died in an accident.”

Lisa thought back to Amber’s school records. The only thing she’d seen relating to Amber’s mother was the word deceased.

“He goes to my church,” Gillian said. “Amber’s in my Sunday morning Bible school class. She never misses a class. They attend both services—on Sunday and Wednesday night. He’s never asked for prayers, never engaged in small talk. He plays on the church’s softball team, but I think the preacher strong-armed him. I think he’s sad.”

“I think he’s sad that he hit Lisa’s car,” Vince agreed.

Lisa thought back to the man who’d just last night insisted on getting his daughter before going home, who so solemnly watched as they buckled up their seat belts, and who gripped the steering wheel as if it were a weapon.

Sad wasn’t the word she’d use to describe him. At first she’d thought distracted and maybe a bit unfriendly, but now she realized that Greg Bond looked haunted.

Burt Kelley finally called Thursday night. Greg made sure Amber was busy drawing at the kitchen table and went into his office. Burt didn’t have good news. “The footage you’re seeing on television leaves out a few key issues.”

“Such as?” Greg asked.

“I can tell you the definites, the ones you’ll see on the news tomorrow. The flowers the kids reported were also tied with red ribbon, like they were at your wedding. They found shoe prints on the floor of the bedroom that are the same size you wear. Those two items are the most damning. Still, they didn’t find fingerprints on the ribbon and a lot of men wear size 12 shoes, including me.”

“You also know the colors Rachel picked out for the wedding.”

Greg could almost picture Burt. Back in high school, Burt had been one of Greg’s many friends. Today Burt was his only friend. Slight and pale, Burt didn’t look impressive, but he had the heart of a gladiator.

Burt continued, “The farmhouse has been used as a party place before, many times. If there was any evidence outside the room Rachel was found in, it’s been irrevocably compromised. The bedroom where the two teens found Rachel isn’t as compromised.”

“They won’t find anything that leads to me!”

“Don’t be cocky,” Burt said snidely. The remark took Greg all the way back to junior high. He and Burt sitting behind the school, smoking cigarettes and looking for trouble. Burt always found it. Until six months ago, Greg had always managed to sidestep it.

Just his luck the first time trouble landed in his lap, it was for something he didn’t do, something he had no control over.

“Well, what should I be worrying about? What won’t they be releasing to the media tomorrow?” Greg asked. “Did I leave another pencil at the scene? Or maybe I left a Polaroid, or even better, I videotaped the murder and just happened to leave the tape behind.”

“Don’t say that—not even to me.”

While Greg had gone to college, Burt had gone to jail. He’d been straddling the three-strikes-and-you’re-out law when a Texas judge challenged him.

Get a life or serve life.

Burt figured he was only good at one thing: being a criminal. He turned that gift into a career of catching criminals. Right now, Burt was a fairly well-known and successful bail enforcement agent—a bounty hunter—who currently worked for only one client.

Alex Cooke.

He was the only person, besides Amber, who knew that Alex Cooke and Greg Bond were one and the same.

“Okay,” Greg agreed. “I won’t say it again. But I’d still like to know what it is they think they have that ties me to Rachel’s murder.”

“Believe me, I intend to find out,” Burt promised. “Greg, I’ve investigated every employee you’ve worked with, and some who came before and after. I’ve tracked down people who blamed the bank for loans gone bad, people who were denied loans and even John Q. Public, who is plugging along paying off his loan. I’ve dug into the history of the contract workers the bank has hired. I know about the people who clean the bank, the men who take care of the grounds, and all the delivery people.

“I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours trying to see if any of the people I’ve investigated in the last year can be tied to the Yudan area. I’ve looked into who owns all the land within a hundred miles. I’ve checked family histories. And I’ve come up with nothing. I think it’s time to stop focusing on you, on who has a vendetta against you. In truth, you were a workaholic who really didn’t get out much. Based on the killer’s dedication to bringing flowers to Rachel’s burial site, I think it’s time to look closer at your wife’s history.”

“Everyone loved Rachel.”

“And that might very well be the motivator. I’ve already started some preliminary investigating. Rachel was very social. Look, Greg, I’m calling you from a hotel near your old house. I’ve already visited the gym she belonged to. I’m starting my list of who she said hi to and who worked out in the morning at the same time. I’ve been to the grocery store where she bought food, her favorite clothing stores, toy stores and bookstores. I know her favorite coffee shop, lunch place and everyone who ever had a playdate with Amy. I’ve even—”

“Enough,” Greg said. “Investigating my life and my wife’s life together seems to have gotten us nowhere. There must be another angle.”

“I want to go back further. On both of you.”

Greg could only shake his head. “I don’t even remember all the foster homes.”

“Well, navigating the foster-care system happens to be a skill of mine, and since we shared an address or two while in the system, investigating your youth shouldn’t be so hard,” Burt said. “I’m going back further on your wife, too.”

Greg shook his head, not that Burt could see. “Good luck. She was the darling of Lawrence, Kansas. Cheerleader, class vice president, lead in her senior play.”

“And she married you? What waaas she thinking?”

Before Rachel’s death, the comment would have garnered a chuckle between two friends who’d somehow managed to make good. Today, it only reduced them to a silence that Burt finally broke.

“How often did you visit her hometown?”

“Since her family died, not very often. It made her too sad. I think in the last five years the only trip we made to Lawrence was for her high school reunion.”

“Her family have money I don’t know about?” Burt asked.

“No, everything is upfront. Her dad owned a hardware store. Mom was a homemaker. What do you think?”

“I think they didn’t have money.”

“I made more money in a week than her dad did in a month,” Greg said. “Which is another reason why it makes no sense to portray me as a bank robber. My robbing a bank makes about as much sense as me killing my wife. Why would I kill her? Why? I loved my wife.”

“The world seldom makes sense,” Burt said.

He’d said the same thing all those years ago when they were taken from a “good” foster home, not given a reason and placed in another.

Silence returned.