Fugitive Family

“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.

Finally, Burt said, “The best news I can give you is that nothing ties Yudan, Kansas, to Sherman, Nebraska. You’re safe for the moment. Stay put, act normal and thank God.”

Greg closed his eyes, feeling choked up. A year ago, if someone had told him to thank God, he’d have laughed. God was for the weak. Greg, as Alex, had been too busy carving out a life to spend time with and for God.

A stolen identity, a scared child, and a black void in his life had somehow landed him in God’s capable hands, and if it weren’t for the Bible and the church, he’d be lost, so lost, when it came to raising Amber without her mother.

When Greg could talk again, he said, “I’m not turning myself in. More than anything, I want to be involved in the investigation. I want to answer their questions and work alongside the authorities. But every single newscast has declared me guilty. What about innocent until proven guilty? Burt, during the time it would take to clear me, Amber would be in foster care. I won’t allow that.”

“I, more than anyone, understand. And if I wasn’t already a person of interest—they’ve stopped me for questioning twice—I’d take her. Greg, man, you have to find someone you trust. Someone who will disappear with Amber until you clear yourself and we find the real culprit.”

“There is no one. Give me another suggestion,” Greg said, gritting his teeth. Burt knew there was no one to leave Amber with, but he kept asking. Greg and Burt both had been raised in the foster-care system, which is why he’d do anything, be anything, to keep Amber out of it. Rachel’s parents and younger brother had died in an automobile accident when Rachel was a freshman in college. And it wouldn’t be fair to ask a church friend to watch Amber, because all it would do is pull one more soul into this wretched game.

Besides, he couldn’t imagine any of the good souls at Sherman’s Main Street Church willing to disappear, to run, should the need arise. Amber’s safety was up to him. Now it was Greg and Amber and God against the world.

“Okay, stay in Nebraska,” Burt relented. “But, remember, go out in the evenings. The more people who see you the better. Somehow our killer’s going to stumble, and I want you to have alibis for every minute of the day. Remember, act normal.”

Greg hung up the phone and stared at it for a few minutes before going to check on Amber. Act normal. Rachel was the actor in the family. It wasn’t fair that Greg had the job now.

The last thing Greg wanted to do on Friday was return to work. He really wanted to stay glued to the Internet, typing in keywords, and looking for newly released footage. But he knew Burt was right about being seen in public. The discovery of Rachel’s body meant the FBI was back to making Alexander Cooke a top priority—again. They’d be looking for him.

Only three people knew that Alexander Cooke had dyed his brown hair black, started wearing blue contacts to hide brown eyes, worked with tools instead of numbers and drove a Ford truck instead of a BMW. Alex, aka Greg Bond; Amber, whose real name was Amy; and Burt.

Act normal. There was nothing normal about living under an assumed name, dying your hair and your daughter’s hair every few weeks, and jumping at shadows. But Greg had done it for months now. If it kept Amber safe, he’d do it for the rest of his life.

“Hey, Greg!” Vince pulled up next to him in the elementary school parking lot. “Surprised you’re back. Dizziness gone?”

“Yes.”

Unfortunately, short answers had never deterred Vince.

“I spoke with my brother yesterday. You did over $2,000 in damage to Lisa’s car. She doesn’t seem too mad. Her and Gillian sure had a lot of questions about you.”

For a moment, fear threatened to spill over. The urge to run surfaced. Greg reined in both emotions. “What kind of questions?”

“What do you do for fun? What happened to your wife? Why you’re still wearing your wedding ring.”

The typical questions single women always asked. Keeping the wedding ring was probably a mistake. It was the ring Rachel had slipped on his finger nine years ago. It was the only visible link to his past. He’d taken it off right after he’d snatched Amy from her friend Molly Turner’s house. He’d put it back on a month later. Sometimes he felt it was all he had left of Rachel.

“Why do you think she had all those questions?” Greg asked, although he knew. He was a single man in a town of single women.

“It wasn’t Lisa so much—more Gillian. Let me tell you, she talked her way through school the first time and, boy, she’s still talking.”

Amber’s former kindergarten teacher was outgoing. Greg had two-stepped around many a question during the last month of school. Then, wouldn’t you know it, when he decided to try his neighborhood church—something to do and a way to get Amber socializing—there was Gillian, introducing him to people he didn’t want to meet and asking even more questions he couldn’t really answer.

Thank goodness Gillian was engaged. It meant she wasn’t looking at him as a potential suitor. Unfortunately, Greg knew the fiancé, even played ball with the man, and didn’t much care for him. Maybe because Perry Jenson reminded Greg too much of ol’ Alexander Cooke, climbing the corporate ladder and spending more time at work than with the people who loved him.

Greg followed Vince to the job trailer. It only took a few minutes to get his assignment and then he was doing cleanup. It took Vince another half hour before he joined Greg, turned on his radio and began life as usual. Where Vince had been for thirty minutes, Greg didn’t want to know.

Vince put on his gloves and looked at Greg. He started the conversation right where they had left off. “I told them you needed to take off your wedding ring because it’s dangerous to wear. I told them that you don’t socialize much. Really, Gillian seemed to know more about you than I do.”

Greg had been paired up with Vince plenty of times. Vince knew that last year Miss Magee had been Amber’s teacher. You’d think he’d have mentioned knowing her.

When Greg didn’t respond, Vince said, “Gillian happened to be there when I stopped by to tell Lisa about my brother’s estimate.”

“The one that’s going to cost me an arm and a leg.”

Vince nodded. “That one.”

“What did Miss Jacoby say?” Greg had a hard time keeping his mind on cleaning up. Today he and Vince were the only ones doing all the odds and ends that came with completing a job. The work was virtually done. Almost everyone else had been sent other places.

“Lisa didn’t say nothing. Until my brother gets the fender, there’s nothing to say. She’s been bumming rides with Gillian.”

As if beckoned by Vince’s words, Gillian pulled into the parking lot. Both men stopped, walked to the edge, and watched. Gillian moved quickly. She was out of the car and unloading stuff from her backseat before Lisa had the passenger-side door opened. Both women wore those jeans that didn’t quite reach their ankles. Lisa also had a pink short-sleeved shirt, and her red hair was in a ponytail, reminding Greg how young she was.

“Yowza,” Vince said.

Greg could only nod. School started on Monday and all the teachers and staff were arriving. A typical day, for them. He needed to do the right thing and take care of her car. After all, he might not be here in another twenty-four hours, depending on what Burt found out.

He hated not knowing the future. Hated living someone else’s life. He wasn’t a laborer; he was a banker. Greg wasn’t wealthy, like the real Greg Bond, the man whose identity he’d stolen—well, borrowed. Alex Cooke was an upwardly mobile young man with a wife and child.

He had to remind himself that he no longer had a wife.

Vince’s radio, newly turned on and blaring before the start of the morning duties, reiterated that fact.

Authorities had just determined that the gun used in the bank robbery—the gun that killed the security guard—was the same gun used approximately six months ago to kill Rachel Cooke.

FOUR

Since she didn’t have a ladder, Lisa used one of the children’s desks to help her get to the out-of-reach places where she wanted to put “Welcome Back” posters.

Right before lunch, Vince meandered in. Greg, looking as if he’d rather be anyplace but here, and as if he hadn’t slept a wink, was right behind him.

Haunted. Yup. Distracted, too, but not unfriendly.

Vince didn’t waste any time. “My brother says it’s going to be a few days before you get your car back.”

It was rather fun to gaze down at them. Vince looked like he’d willingly catch her if she fell. Greg looked like he expected her to fall and break. She put him out of his misery, climbed down and said, “I like riding with Miss Magee. It’s not a problem. Really,” she emphasized looking right at Greg and smiling. “There’s no need to feel bad. Are you all right?”

“He woke up grouchy,” Vince said. “Me, I woke up just fine, and I can give you a ride anywhere you need to go this weekend, too. My brother says he’ll have the fender tomorrow, and your car should be ready Monday at the latest.”

“If possible,” Greg said, tersely. “I’ll head over there Monday and check out the car with you. Then, after you look at it and are sure you’re happy, I’ll pay for everything. We’ll make it work.”

Then, before she could ask questions, they were gone. Well, at least Greg was. Vince hung around a moment talking about dinner, movies, playing pool.

Lisa checked her watch and said she was meeting someone.

That someone was Gillian, who five hours later, gave Lisa a ride to the old Victorian that Lisa called home. Just after six, fading daylight offered the first hint of evening shadows. The wind sent a few leaves blowing up the sidewalk. Lisa opened the car door and started to step out.

“The folks playing softball across the street are the team from my church,” Gillian said. “They’re excited. Tonight’s their first game in this final season. I’m going over to watch. Why don’t you come along?”

Lisa glanced at the park. She’d watched so many of their practices from her balcony that she almost felt as if she knew them. They had a strong first basewoman and pitcher. The outfield was okay, but second and third base were clearly the weak links. It would be nice to put names to the players. They’d be around for Lisa’s viewing pleasure long after Gillian stopped bringing Lisa home.

Besides, the clink of a bat hitting a ball, followed by cheers, was starting to be a feel-good sound—a sound that signaled home, safety, community. Plus, Gillian was quickly becoming a friend. The type of friend who might one day be the Let’s go shopping; how about a movie type of friend. Lisa had already turned down two invitations to Gillian’s church; attending a church softball team sounded safe.

“Yeah, great idea,” she agreed. “Let me run upstairs and drop off some stuff.”

Gillian followed her up the stairs and into the tiny apartment. She stood in the doorway and looked right, then left. “Wow, I’ve never seen a place so small.”

Lisa tossed her purse onto the tiny kitchen table and headed for the bathroom. “It’s perfect for now. I only signed a ten-month lease. Then I’ll either know this is the job and place for me and get something bigger or I’ll go back to Tucson.”

“Don’t let Principal Mott hear you say that,” Gillian called. “She expects life sentences from her teachers. Look how long Mrs. Henry’s been there.”

“Longer than I’ve been alive, and she’ll remind you of that every chance she gets.” Lisa laughed.

When Lisa left the bathroom, Gillian continued, “Karen, who you’re replacing, taught for fifteen years.”

“Hmm,” Lisa said. “So, besides me, that makes you the new kid on the block.”

“Not so new. I attended Sherman Elementary School, my mom was the school nurse—back when the school nurse was a full-time position—and my dad was on the school board. I basically was slated for a position the day I graduated college.”

Lisa grabbed a soda, offered one to Gillian, and opened the door to the sound of a ball connecting with a bat. A cheer followed. Gillian grabbed the soda and quickly headed down the stairs.

“Are you in a hurry?” Lisa asked.

Gillian slowed and nodded. “Perry was supposed to get back today. He hasn’t called, but he plays on the team. I just want to see if he’s back.”

Lisa had heard all about Perry Jenson. He worked for the mayor’s office and spent more time in Lincoln, Nebraska’s capital, than in Sherman.

“What position does he play?” Lisa asked.

“Second base.”

That certainly explained why second base had been weak during practice. The real player had been absent. Lisa hoped there was a good explanation for third base, too. “Why do you suppose he hasn’t called?” Lisa asked.

“Oh,” Gillian said breezily. “He gets busy.”

The team was still warming up when Lisa and Gillian climbed onto the bleachers. Gillian seemed to know everybody and everybody came by to say hi except Perry, who was back in town and busy warming up. There came a round of introductions, complemented by a smattering of Oh, you’re the new first-grade teacher and ending with a few You’ll be seeing my son, daughter, grandchild, come Monday.

Before Lisa had time to put faces to names, a man carrying a roster sat down next to Gillian. “We need two more players.”

“Not me.” Gillian held up a sandaled foot.

He looked at Lisa, and she shook her head. “I’d love to, but I don’t belong to your church.”

“Belonging to the church is a perk, not a requirement.”

“Reverend Pynchon never misses an opportunity,” Gillian joked. “Really, thanks for asking, but the last time I played outfield, the ball hit me in the head.”

The minister looked at Lisa.

“I play second base.”

Wrong thing to say, his eyes lit up.

“I don’t have any gear.”

“We can provide the gear.”

Lisa grinned. “Just tell me when and where.”

“Perfect,” he said. “We have our team, but I need a few more live bodies, and the list has to go in today. Gillian, can I put your name down, too?”

“Do it, Gillian!” Perry yelled.

Gillian looked trapped.

Lisa took the clipboard from Gillian’s hands and dutifully wrote down her name and number. Slowly, Gillian did the same, but stipulated, “Only call me as a last resort.”

He nodded, somebody hollered Batter up, and the game began.

A few minutes later, Lisa knew why the preacher’s eyes had lit up. Hopefully, Perry was better at politics than he was at softball. The church team was playing the field, and the other team scored three runs with their first three at bats. Perry missed a grounder aimed dead-on at him, one she would have snagged, and also failed to back up the first baseman on another grounder.

Perry didn’t act as if he cared that Gillian was in the bleachers. Lisa was about to make a remark about that when she finally noticed the man playing third base.

Greg Bond.

Why had he missed so many practices? Just how dizzy had be been last week? Well, he certainly wasn’t dizzy tonight, and he was a pretty good player. Definitely a better player than Perry, and more observant, both when it came to the game and when it came to women. When Lisa—along with a hot dog, a bag of chips and a brownie—settled down to enjoy the game, Greg looked her way. For an unguarded moment, a half grin came to his face. Then, the mask returned and he gave his full attention to third base. For the next half hour, as Lisa finished her hot dog, brownie and purchased another soda, he kept looking her way. It was almost embarrassing.

“See.” Gillian nudged her. “He likes you. He’s perfect for you, I’m telling you.”

“Hush,” Lisa said. “He’s still wearing his wedding ring. That says it all.”

“Perry barely noticed that I’m here,” Gillian complained. “One quick wave.”

At that moment, two little girls ran toward the fence in front of the bleachers. They hit it hard. A boy was moments behind them. “Daddy!” Amber cried. “I’m hungry.”

“Me, too!” the other two cried.

Lisa turned around. Behind her was the playground.

Greg hadn’t been checking her out; he’d been keeping an eye on his daughter.

Greg’s mind was definitely not on softball. If it had been anything but a church league, he’d have been benched.

His mind was on the bullet, Rachel and Burt.

He’d left work again, claiming dizziness, and had headed home. This time, his boss told him to see a doctor. This time, he didn’t have an accident or need to retrieve Amber. He’d scanned the Internet until his eyes were crossed. He’d watched the news until he could recite the same old reports. And after eight hours, all he knew was he needed—no, deserved—to bury Rachel properly, and he knew he was slowly losing his mind waiting for Burt to call. Burt had better have something more than what the news channels were reporting.

After making sure the batter wasn’t ready, Greg checked his cell phone one more time, just to make sure it was on.

It was—no missed calls.

It was Amber’s need to be with other kids and Greg’s need to take his mind off his cell phone that drove him out of the house.

It was the wise and healthy choice. It was getting to the point where he wanted to smash his fist right through the screen as he listened to newsman after newswoman read the teleprompter, condemning him.

Unfortunately, softball wasn’t enough of a contact sport to take the edge off his anger.

When Lisa showed up at the softball game, Greg noticed but didn’t have time to really think about it. He focused on his daughter’s whereabouts while listening for the cell phone stashed in his back pocket. He didn’t care about the dirty looks his teammates would give him should it ring. He needed to hear what Burt had to say. He wanted to hear that there was some hope of getting his life back!

The first game of the season already hinted at a shutout. The score was 10–2. His team had heart; the other team had a cutthroat mentality.

In some ways, it was Greg’s fault. He’d missed every practice. He blamed himself. Somewhere, somehow, he’d really antagonized somebody, and that someone had taken over his life.

Sometimes he didn’t feel as if he deserved to have fun. God, it seemed, and the people of Sherman, Nebraska, had other ideas.

The center fielder was the town sheriff, a man named Jake Ramsey who made Greg nervous by his offers of friendship. Even he managed to make it to more practices than Greg, which only implied that it was better to chase criminals than be considered one.

“Batter up!”

Greg glanced over at Amber, then picked up his bat and ambled to the plate. He was able to concentrate by reverting to an old trick. The ball zoomed toward him; it was the bank robber’s, the murderer’s, head. He swung; the ball clanked at impact, and in a flash Greg went around first, second, third and thundered across home well before the ball made it back to the infield.

He hadn’t even realized that two people were on base.

Maybe the game wouldn’t be a total embarrassment after all.

“Good going,” Perry said. The mayor’s assistant had struck out. Looking at the bleachers, Perry did the politician’s wave, almost as if he had just homered and driven in three runs.

The sheriff patted Greg on the back. “Way to get us in the game.” The applause died down, and Greg looked over to where Amber was playing. She hadn’t noticed the hit, but it looked as if Miss Jacoby and Miss Magee had. They were both smiling as if he’d struck gold.

Miss Magee waved.