Fugitive Family

“Amber’s babysitter and best friend,” Greg added, putting Amber down. “Besides me, she’s the only one allowed to pick Amber up from school.”

“Overprotective father,” Mrs. Griffin said.

Lisa figured that.

“Wise father,” Greg countered.

“This is my new teacher,” Amber announced before plopping to the floor to carefully load coloring books, lined notebooks, crayons, pencils and loose paper into a backpack. She had a place for everything and everything went into its place. “Daddy hit her car, and she already knows I’m a good drawer.”

“Way to start the school year, Greg,” Mrs. Griffin said before scrutinizing Lisa. “So you’re the one taking over for Karen.”

“Yes. She showed up at school today with her new baby. Everyone was excited,” Lisa said.

“Daddy, look.”

“We didn’t think that girl would ever get married.” Mrs. Griffin chuckled. “Then she met, married and quit working, all in a school year.”

“A lot can happen in a short time,” Lisa agreed.

“Daddy, look.”

Finally, the grown-ups looked. The sound was off, but the picture said it all: a bank robbery. The grainy surveillance camera caught the bank robber as he entered and exited. He wore a gray jumpsuit and some sort of mask.

“They’re replaying that bank robbery from earlier this year,” Mrs. Griffin said. “They found the wife’s body. It’s on all the channels.”

“Daddy, look,” Amber repeated. “You’re on TV.”

TWO

Amber’s eyes remained glued to the television. Mrs. Griffin and Lisa turned to look at Greg. He wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. He absolutely did not know how to handle this.

Mrs. Griffin’s look was one of amusement. She’d been watching Amber all summer and knew about his little girl’s imagination. She’d seen the drawings Amber made of her friends, her cat and her history. History being what worried Greg. He suspected that Mrs. Griffin had a vague idea that somewhere, at some time, existed a mother with curly blond hair who liked going to the park, who liked to sit at a dinner table and eat pizza, and who liked to read books to a little girl who sat in her lap. He hoped Mrs. Griffin didn’t question why sometimes the daddy in the pictures had brown hair instead of black, or why the little girl was blond. Mrs. Griffin probably knew Amber had lived in a two-story house, and it had been made of brick. She probably even suspected that Greg, judging by the cars Amber drew and the suit and tie Amber drew him in, had at one time worked in a white-collar job.

Lisa Jacoby had a look of pure curiosity. She knew little or nothing about Greg and Amber Bond, except what last year’s kindergarten teacher, Gillian Magee, had managed to figure out during the last month of school—that the little girl drew all the time and that Greg was a bit of a hovering parent.

Truth. Always stick as close to the truth as possible.

Greg managed what he hoped was a straight face and said, “The bank robber is wearing what’s called a grub mask. I bought one once, a long time ago, for a costume party.”

“It scared me,” Amber agreed.

“What exactly is a grub mask?” Mrs. Griffin asked.

“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.

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.

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.