Seeking Refuge

by Alana Terry

  “You just know I’d dump it in your lap without a second thought.”

  He grimaced, eying her warily. “I have no doubt.”

  Alexa reclined her seat to the perfect position and adjusted her pillow. Even with her eyes closed, when his coffee arrived, she could sense his thoughts. “Don’t even think about it.”

  “You’re worse than Jeremy. It’s like you guys can read minds or something.”

  “We can.” Alexa stretched her hands behind her head and opened her eyes. “Weren’t they charming yesterday? I thought that chase scene would go outside and turn into an all-out snowball fight.”

  “Not if Jeremy can prevent it. He hates the cold. I picture him living on some tropic island and setting up a research lab or maybe being a medical missionary in the Sahara.” Joe fiddled with the seat again “Off topic, but...are you up to talking about your writing?”

  “What about it?”

  Joe tried another approach. “You said your family disapproves.”

  “They do.”

  “That’s got to hurt.”

  “Not usually,” she said, watching him closely. “The digs about my weak faith or how I failed them—those hurt. Their opinion of my writing or genre—I couldn’t care less. They’re not the only ones who think there’s something wrong with me.”

  “Really?”

  She shrugged. “It gets worse when they make the movies. Some people can handle the book, but as soon as they see it on the big screen with special effects and actors, suddenly people see evil through the eye of a camera. Cameras make it either truer to life or more overblown than most people’s imagination. I don’t focus on grisly details in my books, but movies delight in that stuff.”

  Joe rested, mulling her words before he asked, “Who gives you grief about it—I mean specifically?”

  “People at church—”

  “Not specific enough. Which people? Names and how you know them. I’m trying to understand if it’s my job that makes me desensitized to the stuff you write or if it’s because I truly don’t see anything wrong with it.”

  “Wilma.” Alexa let the name drop unassisted by excess adjectives, nouns, verbs, prepositions, or adverbs.

  “Wilma Vanderhausen? She has all of your books. She admitted to seeing and liking both of your movies.”

  “And when she realized I am a Christian whose career is the springboard of a murderer, she decided that maybe I’m wrong for not writing syrupy romances or futuristic worlds where aliens are a kinder, gentler race from whom we learn great things. I changed her mind. That rarely happens.”

  “How did you do that?” Joe shifted in his chair to get a better look at her face.

  “I tried to describe a world where we never see justice—where sin surrounds us, but the only response we see is a sweet romance or a heartwarming tale of doing good to our neighbors.”

  “And God is a God of more than love and mercy—justice. You give readers that.” He was silent for a few more minutes, apparently considering her words and then asked, “Ok, so who else?”

  “Sarah.” Alexa laughed at the shock on Joe’s face. “I’m serious. She thinks that if I write more romance type books some prince charming will ride up on his white charger and carry me off to a palace in the sunset.”

  “Don’t do it.”

  Curiosity piqued, she asked the obvious question. “Why not?”

  “I enjoy your writing, but I cannot imagine explaining why I want to read the latest bodice ripper to Wayne or Todd over at Bookends.”

  “If I wrote romances, I’d write something more subtle.”

  “Like Austen—something that gives you the entire story without any of the intimate details?” Joe looked smug at his assessment.

  “Well, that too. It’s more than that, though. The humor, the—”

  “Ok, so Sarah and Wilma and your parents are against your writing.”

  “Actually, I think my dad reads my books on the sly. Only my mom and sister truly object.”

  “That isn’t very many. Name everyone in Fairbury that you know objects or suspect does.”

  Frustrated, Alexa began ticking people off on her fingers. “Paul Acker, Cecily Livingstone, Ray Connors, um... Myrna Olavson, Andrea Stine, and Mrs. Varney.”

  “Mostly women, huh? I know Paul Acker, and Ray Connors sounds familiar. I’m kind of surprised at Mrs. Varney.”

  “I’m not. She lives with the effects of crime without being able to do anything about it. That’s why the chief moved her to Fairbury. She was tired of him risking his life to protect humanity from the most inhumane of people.” Alexa paused and pulled out a pen and notebook from her purse and scrawled those words on it. She knew exactly where she’d like to put them. “She’s seen it from the helpless side and can’t see the difference between glorification of evil and literary vindication.”

  “Ray Connors...” Joe’s eyes widened as he spoke. “Is that the quiet guy at church—the town handyman?”

  “Yep. Mark Connor’s brother from the Rockland FBI office. I actually met Ray through his brother. Mark lets me interview him sometimes.”

  Silence hovered in the cabin for much of the rest of the flight. Something niggled at Joe, but before he could trap it, the fasten seat belt lights flashed as the flight attendant announced the descent into Rockland. “There already? I could get used to first class. The extra room makes a difference.”

  Thirty minutes later, they strolled to the baggage claim area to collect Alexa’s suitcases. Joe’s cellphone rang, startling them both. Alarm seized him as he listened. He grabbed Alexa’s hand and pulled her through the crowds, jostling people as he wove his way to the doors. “Where is your car?”

  “In long-term parking, why?”

  “It’s Lorie.”

  Chapter 24

  HE SPED HOME AT BREAKNECK speed—the job, a smashing success. The unintentional pun amused him as he pounded the steering wheel, excited. If this didn’t get her attention, nothing would. Then again, she’d surprised him with how she continued to write, even as the death toll rose. The crusade sickened him; he wanted out. Maybe someone else could take over once he stopped Alexa Hartfield. He was tired.

  This one would work, though. He’d seen the girl in the house. He’d seen her little ball of fur barking at him. The man had left too soon, but then again, maybe it was best. He’d be angry with Alexa. He’d stop her. Yes. The final one was now complete. Surely.

  He swerved. “Pay attention,” he growled to himself. “You cannot get caught. If they catch you, no one will stop her. It’s your responsibility. Drive carefully but not too slow—just five miles over the speed limit. Stay in the flow of traffic. Push through. Don’t get tired. Press on.”

  Strains of “Victory in Jesus” rang out in what he knew was a heart-melting baritone. Triumphantly the last line echoed through the cab. “Beneath the cleansing flood...”

  Chapter-25

  DARRIN FRANTICALLY navigated the streets toward home. Traffic grew congested while he was still many blocks away, but he wove through the cars, irritating people on every side. Three blocks from his street, he came to a standstill—the road choked with unmoving vehicles. An officer stood in the rain and impatiently waved him back.

  He abandoned the car and tried to get through on foot. The officer shouted at him to turn around and go home. “You won’t let me. I live in there! My daughter is home alone and probably terrified”

  “What is your address?”

  “Eighty-nine forty-three Yellowstone.” Darrin grew more uneasy by the second.

  “The fire chief wants to talk to you. He’s sending an escort.”

  “What for?” Darrin steeled himself against the worst.

  The cop shrugged. “He probably wants to know who lives where and who should be home this time of day.”

  Darrin followed the escort for two blocks, unspeaking. The firefighter’s turnout coat was semi-gray with soot. The man handed Darrin a facemask as they neared Darrin’s block. As the
y rounded the corner, he saw precisely orchestrated chaos swarming his street.

  Firefighters streamed water onto several houses. One man, obviously the one in charge, barked orders into his radio. After the first glance, Darrin hardly noticed any of it. He sank to his knees in the middle of the street, his hands covering his eyes, and wept.

  “WHAT HAPPENED? JOE!” Alexa didn’t like the look on Joe’s face.

  “There’s been an explosion—house is gone. Darrin Thorne told the fire department there to contact Varney.”

  Alexa sank to the ground in the middle of the slushy parking lot. Joe tried urging, cajoling, and commanding, but she refused to budge. Frustrated, he half carried her a few feet until she snapped out of her shock.

  “Darrin said—does that mean they’re ok?”

  Joe put her down, shaking his head. “Lorie was home alone. Darrin ran to get a movie from a RedBox and when he got back—”

  “Oh, Joe...”

  He led her to her car and settled her in the passenger seat. “Let’s get you home. I—”

  “No! I have to go back. This is my fault. I need to be there for him—it’s all my fault.”

  She sobbed for a few minutes, Joe patting her shoulder awkwardly. Once she regained control, she’d get out and return to the terminal. Joe’s voice and logic hit her hard when he finally spoke.

  “We can’t go back. They won’t let us near the scene for one thing. It’s not like TV. You can’t just flash a badge from a town in another state and expect to be allowed to wander anywhere you want.”

  “But Darrin—”

  “I don’t want to be cruel, but he might blame you. Don’t rub salt in a fresh wound. Wait until he calls. We’ll get back to Fairbury and maybe by then, the chief will have more information

  ALEXA DIDN’T RECOGNIZE her house. Every game she owned sat stacked next to the couch. The alarm clock in Wes’ room played U2 at an unbearable decibel level. Filthy plates were stacked everywhere, and clothes carpeted the bathroom. “Wes seems to have made himself at home,” she muttered as she followed the trail of laundry through her house. A woman’s sweater, not hers, interested her.

  “Joe, is Heather home?”

  “I can’t tell from here. Would her minivan be in the drive or the garage—and why?”

  “Curious.”

  She sank into her chair, pulling out a wadded sweatshirt from beneath her. Though tears threatened, Alexa was determined to wait until Joe left before she fell apart—again. Lorie. It didn’t seem possible.

  Emotions welled up in her until she felt choked. Desperate to do something to stop it, she shoved herself from the chair and began gathering the laundry. Joe murmured into his phone as she passed, saying something about the media, but she ignored him. Self-preservation demanded it.

  Arms loaded with more clothing than Wes possibly could have worn in four days, she strode through the house and into her mudroom to start a load. A glance across her back yard caused her to jump.

  “Joe!” Her stage whisper didn’t bring him running. She tried again. Joe! Come here!”

  “What?” He reached her before she could continue.

  “I’m going to turn out the light and go inside. Follow me. When we get in there, I’ll partially close the door, but we’ll crouch down and come back out. You need to see this.”

  They strolled back into the house, crouched down, and crawled back into the mudroom. “Over here,” she hissed.

  “Why are we whispering?”

  “I don’t know—in case they can hear us?”

  He sat against the washer, staring out the window. “Who are ‘they?’”

  “When I came out to start the washer, I saw a pair of binoculars over that fence.”

  Joe ducked and pulled her down with him. Alexa yelped. “Ouch! That hurt. What’d you do that for?”

  “I saw them. I think they’re night vision.” Before Alexa could grow nervous, Joe flipped from casual friend to local cop. “Ok, this is what we’re going to do. I’m going to rock your washer like it’s unbalanced. You open the door and stand up fast and ‘fix it’ before you go back in. Just talk to me as if I’m still in the house. I doubt anyone could hear us, but in case sound carries...”

  They acted out their charade and the binoculars didn’t move. Alexa made coffee while Joe called for Judith to go to the house that backed Alexa’s to see who was watching. “Call me when you get out of the car and I’ll be ready to jump from this side if necessary.”

  Twenty minutes later, Judith sat at Alexa’s table, sipping coffee and taking notes on what happened. “I don’t get it,” Alexa said. “Those binoculars were there until just before you said you were going in the back. You should have seen anyone who was back there. What about cars? Was a Ford Focus anywhere near?”

  “Nope—just a truck in the driveway. Must belong to the house.”

  Alexa sat up straighter. “Dark green? Late model? One of those cabs with the seats behind the driver?”

  Judith nodded. “Do you know it?”

  “One like that turned down my street when we got here. It just made a fast U-turn and whipped out again, but I saw it clearly under the lights.”

  Joe shook his head. “You couldn’t be from here and get turned around between Sycamore and Lupine Courts. They use different access roads.”

  “My point exactly.”

  Judith and Joe dashed for the patrol car. Alexa locked the doors behind them and sank into her favorite corner of the couch, praying. She saw headlights on the wall moments later, and then they vanished. A glance out the window showed taillights that could have been from the truck, but it was too dark to be certain. Her heart sank. The streetlight at the corner was out.

  Alexa’s phone rang and Joe updated her. “We’re driving around town. The truck was gone.”

  “The streetlight on the corner is out, too.”

  “Call Wes and tell him to get back there. I don’t want you alone. If he’s not in town, call me back. I’ll send someone over.”

  She disconnected the call and stared at the phone. She saw a missed voice message and punched it—Lorie. Taking a deep breath, she listened.

  “Hi, Alexa. I didn’t know who else to call—no one is answering. We thought maybe Joe could help, but he’s not answering either. I can’t get home. Something happened; there are police cars and fire trucks everywhere and Dad isn’t answering the phone and I’m scared. The news is talking about explosions but we didn’t catch the street. We’re trying to find stuff on the internet and it’s just a mess. Can you call me? I’m going to go back to Jeremy’s and—”

  The message cut off midsentence. Alexa stared at the time the message was left and realized the call came through after she got off the plane. “Oh, Lord. Please! Please let it—”

  She punched Lorie’s number and waited for it to ring. Her heart sank when a man’s voice came over the phone. “I’m looking for Lorie Thorne. Maybe I have the wrong number.”

  “This is Lorie’s phone. Alexa? She’s on the other phone trying to call her dad again. Hold on.”

  She recognized the inflection on “ee” when the man called for Lorie—Jeremy. Lorie was safe. She had to get word to Darrin. Lorie’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

  “It’s all over the news. A house blew up. They showed some pictures—it might be ours or the Lindebergs—maybe even the Silers. I can’t tell. Dad isn’t answering his cellphone—”

  “Lorie, listen. Your dad is ok. He thinks you were in the house. It was your house. I’ll call you right back. Let me get Joe looking for a way to get news to your dad, ok?”

  Lorie burst into a fit of weeping, chattering nonsensically. Jeremy took the phone and tried to talk while making soothing noises as he attempted to comfort Lorie. “Alexa, it’s me. Um, Lorie’s kind of messed up. Her friend was in the house waiting for her. If her dad left, he came back thinking Lorie was still in the house, but her friend—”

  “I’ll call you back. Tell her to hang on.”

&
nbsp; Alexa disconnected the phone and dialed Joe’s number. As she explained the situation, an idea occurred to her. She dragged out her laptop and began punching addresses into a reverse directory. One came up for a Cline Tate at eighty-nine forty-six Yellowstone.

  “Joe, I’ll call you back.”

  Without waiting for a response, Alexa disconnected and dialed the new number. The phone rang incessantly as she typed in more addresses from the same area. Just as she was about to hang up and try the next name on her list, an impatient voice answered. “Yes, yes. What is it?”

  Alexa prayed the woman wouldn’t think she was a prankster and hang up. “Can you please get a message to Darrin Thorne? He lives at eighty-nine forty-three Yellowstone. He doesn’t have his cellphone with him so I can’t call him. Will you please tell him that his daughter was not in the house—”

  “What? Who is this? What are you talking about?”

  “Ma’am, your neighbor across the street. He thinks his daughter died in that explosion. She didn’t. Please write down this number...”

  Though the woman, sounding even more skeptical now, promised to deliver the message, Alexa didn’t trust it. She looked up the number for the Chicago television stations and gave them the same information, using Chief Varney’s name to try to lend credibility to her story. It seemed to work.

  Alexa bounced from one Chicago news website to the next, waiting for the breaking news to be updated with her call for Darrin. The phone rang just as she thought she couldn’t stand it any longer. “Hello?”

  “Alexa? Did you call? Liz Tate said someone named Hartfield called and said Lorie wasn’t in the house. Was that you?”

  Alexa tried to explain, urging him to call Lorie’s phone. “She’s distraught, Darrin. Her friend was there when she left. I don’t think she knew you’d gone anywhere when she went for a snack run.”

  “You’re sure it was her? She’s not picking up her phone.”

  Alexa groaned. “She’s been trying nonstop. Maybe her battery died. Look, I’m looking up the Friedan’s number now. She’s at their house. I guess she was on the phone with him when she couldn’t get close enough to home, so he talked her into going there.”