by CJ Lyons
If I could only find you...are you looking for me too? Does Josh cry for his mommy?
I hope not. I want to think of him happy, not remembering the horror...
A lawyer came to see me today after the Colonel's wife left. Nice guy. Works for a victims' advocacy project. He heard about us and he's willing to help anyway he can.
I almost slammed the door in his face. Almost told him the only help I needed was my husband and son back at home where they should be. But he didn't look at me like he was afraid of any sudden moves I might make. He didn't stare, waiting for me to fall apart, to shatter into bits and pieces, tick, tick, boom.
He sat and listened. And for the first time since you left, I was able to force words past this knot in my throat that's been strangling me. I talked. And talked and talked.
Poor guy, he probably thought I was nuts. But he didn't run. He listened.
I even showed him Josh's room, your piano, the songs you were working on. I told him how we met, showed him pictures. You holding Josh after the doctor handed him to you, looking scared and unsure and surprised and delighted all at once. The one of Josh sleeping naked except for his diaper on your bare chest when we were both too exhausted to do laundry. Josh's first birthday, all of us wearing enough birthday cake that we needed hosed off afterwards.
Alan, that's his name, Alan Easton. He smiled and even laughed. Like no one has in sixteen days—as if it was against the law to laugh in front of a grief-stricken mother and wife.
I think you'd like him. You know why? 'Cause once his laughter shattered the awful silence shrouding our house I found myself smiling. And babbling. He sat at your piano and my heart squeezed so tight I thought it would burst with pain, but then he began picking out your latest masterpiece.
You remember: Your eyes remind me of the sky at night, your lips promise me a chance at life....that one.
Alan tried singing it and, believe it or not, he sounded worse than you! I couldn't help myself. The laughter sparked through me, fizzing up like a bottle of beer shook too hard and I couldn't stop it spurting out.
I laughed so hard I cried. And once the tears started—remember how I was early on when I was pregnant with Josh? Like that, only worse.
Alan didn't get that wide-eyed look of horror that everyone else gets when they're with me. He stayed, held my hand while I cried enough water to flood the Sahara. Then he left, promised to look into things and come back tomorrow.
I sat there alone in the living room, the first time I've been alone in our house in sixteen days. It felt crowded yet empty all at once. Now I know what they mean by the term: silence is deafening.
Our house, always so filled with noise and love. Your music, your godawful caterwauling when the spirit moved you—you're the only songwriter I've heard of who couldn't carry a tune in a bucket—Josh's running feet, the dryer clanking off balance, Josh's laughter, your laughter, there was none of that.
Just the creaking of frogs outside and the groans and hums of an old, empty house.
I sat there awhile, not sure what I was feeling. But it was something.
I even ate some chicken the Colonel's wife brought last night. For the first time in weeks, I could actually taste it.
I took a shower and then a long, hot bath. It's not even five yet, but I feel so very tired. I borrowed one of your T-shirts to wear to bed. One from the dirty laundry, the better to smell you, to be with you tonight. I had to empty the hamper of yours and Josh's clothes and hide them in a bag under my bed before the Colonel's wife did the laundry and sanitized you out of existence.
I'm going to sleep now, but I'll leave the window open and the light on for you. Kiss Josh for me. Goodnight my loves....
CHAPTER 7
Wednesday, June 19, 2007: Hopewell, New York
Sarah had organized her plan of attack more carefully than a general facing a superior opposition. She promised herself she'd give this everything she had—devote her entire summer to finding Sam and Josh if need be.
And then...She paused as her fingers danced over her freshly copied satellite imagery maps of Snakehead Mountain. If she found them, well maybe then, maybe finally, she could say goodbye.
She kept her campaign headquarters hidden in Sam's office. It was a bright and cheery room in the rear of the house, with its own entrance, although to be honest, Sam had written more music here than insurance policies. She'd never understood why he'd come to Hopewell to set up his independent insurance agency, but he made a steady if modest income. She taped her topo maps and satellite images over posters of his heroes: John Lee Hooker, Stevie Ray Vaughn, Bob Dylan, Eric Clapton.
A cough at the door interrupted her. She looked up to see Hal standing in the hallway, a small Motorola in his hand. "I knocked—"
"Sorry, I was running the copy machine. Thanks for bringing the radio by."
"No problem." He joined her at the drafting table Sam had used as a desk. Leaning forward, he examined the topo map she'd laid out. Neon orange highlighted the areas on the map where Sam's blood was found, the spot half a mile away where Josh's Tigger was abandoned, the areas searched two years ago. A breathy whistle escaped him. "Helluva lot of territory to cover. With no guarantees. These mountains don't give up their secrets easily."
She stood beside him, her hand clenching and unclenching as she stared at the vast wilderness depicted on the map. "I know."
"I just don't want you to be getting your hopes up. Again." Silence. They both knew how Sarah had spent last summer. Down in Texas, living out of a Huntsville motel room while Alan tried unsuccessfully to get her an audience with Damian Wright. Then, once she'd come home…
Hal seemed to follow her thoughts effortlessly. Why not? He knew better than anyone what she was going through. He was still beating himself up for not being there the night his wife died. He tilted his head, met her gaze. "Sure you know what you're doing, Sarah? Sometimes it's best to leave well enough alone."
"I need to do this, Hal." She forced herself to smile, patted his arm reassuringly. "Don't worry, I'm not about to go off the deep end again. That's behind me."
"Some things you never put behind you," he said in a low tone, his hand covering hers. "Some things you just learn how to live with." He paused. "You need to find a reason, Sarah. You have to decide."
She stepped back, turning to gather the enlargements she'd just made on the copier. Lately, Sam's ancient Xerox was really getting a workout.
Hal took the top sheet from her. "This where you're looking?" He traced a finger along the ridgeline between the mountain summit and the Upper Falls. "Rugged territory—especially after the freeze-thaw cycle this spring. Been a couple rockslides off the eastern face near Snakebelly and the Devil's Elbow."
The Devil's Elbow was where the river and the mountain gorge took a sharp ninety-degree turn then dropped precipitously, creating the Upper Falls. Several deep crevasses broke through the gorge wall near there, including the infamous Snakebelly—so named because it was the river's graveyard. Any large pieces of flotsam from upstream would invariably get caught in the current and directed into the chasm, usually undetected until a rockslide or avalanche loosened the debris and freed what lay hidden beneath.
"I'll be fine. I've climbed around there all my life."
Hal nodded, his gaze still following his finger as it traced the closely stacked lines on the topo map. "Maybe you shouldn't go alone. Why don't you ask Alan to go with you?"
Sarah snatched the map away from him, began folding it, her fingers mercilessly pressing creases into the paper. "Hal Waverly, are you trying to play matchmaker? I thought you of all people would understand."
"The man's crazy about you, Sarah. Any fool can see that. Giving up his practice in the city to move up here—"
"It was only because of the case, Damian Wright. Alan was trying to set a precedent for victims' rights with my appeals. It had nothing to do with me."
"Oh really? Then why is he still here? Hanging around like a kid too shy t
o ask a girl to dance."
She waved her hand to shut him up. He ignored her, propping his butt on the desk's rim. "He seems good for you. When you're around him, you seem, well, happy."
"Hal. Please. You make me sound like I'm some weepy widow trailing around in black veils. It's been a rough two years, but I'm doing all right."
"You are. And I think Alan has something to do with that. He's not the only one who wants to see you happy, Sarah. I heard the Colonel asking him his intentions."
She straightened and pivoted, the blood rushing to her face in embarrassment. "He has no right—it's my life and I'll live it the way I want!"
"That's the point, isn't it?" Hal gave her a half-smile. "Sarah, you didn't die on that mountain. Don't waste your life just because some madman killed Josh and Sam."
If anyone else had spoken those words to Sarah she would have snapped, exploded in rage and ordered them from her house. But this wasn't anyone. This was Hal who said what Sarah knew in her heart was the truth.
Hal had already faced that truth after his wife died. Only it wasn't a truth she was prepared to face. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
"I need a little more time," she said, shoving the map into the pocket of her Gortex jacket. "If Alan understands, he'll wait." She finally raised her head, met his gaze. "Just a little longer."
"Sarah, you got to tell him how you feel one way or the other, put the poor guy out of his misery at least." He reached for her hand once more. "Hey, I know how he feels—remember the senior prom? Took me forever to work up the courage to ask you and by then it was too late. You went with Tommy Hopkins instead."
"All right, you made your point. Now don't you have some crooks to lock up or something?"
"Just finished a twelve, I'm not officially back on the clock until tomorrow morning. Of course," he gestured to the cell phone, pager and radio weighing down his belt, "that doesn't mean they won't call me back sooner." He blew out his breath. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. New wrinkles lined his face and his jaw muscle kept twitching. "Guess I should go home, get myself some rest."
Sounded like a good idea. He appeared close to exhaustion or a breakdown and the tourist season, Hal's busy time of year, had only just begun. "Why don't you take some time for yourself? You haven't taken a day off since Lily died. Take a vacation, go someplace far away, find a cute girl and break her heart like you did mine in high school."
That made him smile. "I'm thirty-two, if I start chasing after girls I'll have to arrest myself. Besides," his gaze speared past her to fix on the mountains framed in the view from the window, "guess we're both tied to this place."
He handed her the radio and a spare battery pack. She walked with him to the door. Together they stood on the front porch, Snakehead towering over them, casting the house in shadows.
"How long are you planning to stay up there?" he asked.
"A few days, then I'll come back, re-supply."
A frown tightened his forehead. "How 'bout if you give me a firm return time so I don't have to send people out looking for you? You be back here by Friday afternoon, all right? Maybe let Alan take you up to that Montreal art exhibit for the weekend."
Looked like the town had formed a conspiracy trying to get her and Alan together. But a weekend away, without murder as the main topic of conversation did sound nice. "All right. On one condition. That you take a vacation as well. Go, have some fun, let Hopewell take care of itself for a day or two."
He nodded, a smile crossing his face but not making it to his eyes. "Deal. Come Friday night, I'll officially take off for parts unknown."
"Just don't get yourself arrested, Chief."
"Good luck, Sarah. And have a care." He sauntered down the path to where his GMC was parked. "Call me if you need anything."
"I won't be needing you. Go home, get some rest."
He gave her a wave as he climbed into the SUV, honked once and did a rapid three point turn, spinning gravel. The hemlocks lining her lane swayed in the wind, seeming to close in behind him. Silence fell as the dust settled.
Sarah took a deep breath, filling her lungs as if preparing for a long underwater siege. Nodding to Snakehead, accepting its silent challenge, she went back inside to collect the rest of her gear.
The Colonel's hunting cabin was near the top of the mountain, the last shelter accessible by car. Her plan was to drive up, park, then work her way down the south face. No need for a tent, the weather was mild. All she needed was her sleeping bag and a ground cloth. If the weather turned, as it was prone to near the summit, she could always bivouac in the single room cabin.
Of course, the Colonel's wife would heartily disapprove of a woman staying alone in a cabin lacking plumbing or electricity—much less sleeping out under the stars. The thought made Sarah smile.
It wasn't that she disliked the Colonel's wife or felt that no one could ever replace her mother. All right, it wasn't just that she disliked the Colonel's wife. It was the fact that Victoria had never given Sarah a chance to know her, much less like her, before she moved in and began to run the Colonel's life for him.
The man was in charge of two hundred men during the Vietnam war, so it was surprising to Sarah that he seemed to enjoy his newfound captivity. Or at least his warden.
Sarah's head bobbed in time with the tune she hummed as she arranged her gear. One of Sam's ditties, from his country-western phase. He'd called it the No Sunshine, Stuck in the Mud, Rainy Day Blues.
I'm coming guys...don't worry, I'll find you.
JD Dolan pedaled his Diamondback furiously, straining to gain the momentum necessary to conquer the last hill standing between him and Main Street. Doc Hedeger's purple Victorian became a fuzzy blur on his left side as he rounded the corner. Brakes squealed, a horn honked, but JD didn't care. He sped past the squat orange brick post office—a building so ugly, its existence had almost caused a civil war between the inhabitants of Hopewell.
JD had covered the protests for the Hopewell school newspaper. Mrs. Durandt, the faculty adviser, submitted one of his stories to a statewide competition and it had won second place. Mrs. Durandt had been so impressed she agreed to help JD apply for an internship at a TV station in DC. If the documentary he produced this summer was good enough, then he might get paid to go to DC and learn all about journalism next summer instead of delivering appliances with his dad.
"Slow down you hooligan, you!" Victoria, the Colonel's wife, shouted as JD's bike skidded through the post office's gravel drive, spraying her freshly swept sidewalk with stones. "I'll call Chief Waverly on you, I will!"
JD's only response was a smile as he leaned further over his handlebars. Almost to the top, a new world speed record about to be broken, Lance Armstrong eat your heart out! He wasn't afraid of Hal Waverly. He knew damn well the Chief would be out on patrol, probably helping lost tourists change a flat tire. Hal was always helping someone somewhere, spent even less time at home than he did at his new office.
That was the thing about growing up in a small town in the middle of nowhere. JD knew everything about everyone—and they knew everything about him as well.
Or at least they thought they did. His smile widened into a grin as he crested the hill and raised his hands in victory. He coasted down the other side, along Main Street, passing houses where he could name every inhabitant including dogs, cats, canaries and assorted gerbils and hamsters. He dodged the bakery's van just as Mr. Harris jumped out, right on time as St. Andrew's bell chimed the hour.
Predictable. Boring. That was Hopewell.
This was JD's last summer of freedom. Next year he'd be sixteen and would spend the rest of his summers working. Hopefully he'd make enough to be able to go to college. And after college, more work. But the next seventy-two days were his.
Summer of freedom. He tasted the words. They felt good. He wasn't about to waste a second, he was going to do more living this one summer than he had the rest of his life, cram everything he could into it.
A familiar figure
leaned against the lamppost outside of the Rockslide. JD sucked his breath in, felt his head rush, and jammed on his brakes. He screeched to a stop, feigning nonchalance despite the fact that he was huffing, finding it hard to breathe.
"Hi, JD," Julia Petrino said with a smile that made his chest tighten. She was dressed in cut off jean shorts, two spaghetti strap camisoles over lapping, one red and one purple but somehow they didn't clash—not clinging to Julia's perfect body. Her long, blonde-brown hair stirred in the breeze, and he watched as her nipples rose beneath the spandex.
Oh yeah. This was going to be a summer to remember. For the rest of his life.
"I thought maybe you'd forgotten our date," Julia went on, oblivious to his inability to force his gaze away from her breasts. She swung her leg over her own bike, offering him an even more mesmerizing sight of her rear, pale strings of frayed denim brushing the back of her smooth, tanned thighs.
"Uh, no." The words emerged in a croak. JD cleared his throat and tried again, gripping the handlebars tighter to disguise his sweaty palms. "Where did you want to start?"
She shrugged, an elegant motion that set her hair swaying and made JD's mouth go dry. "We've got all day. I picked up some fried chicken from the Rockslide." He noticed the daypack she had strapped to the bike's rear fender. "Want to go up the eastern face? Maybe to the Lower Falls?"
He arched an eyebrow at her, balancing on both pedals of his bike. "That's a mighty steep trail. Sure you can make it all the way?"
Her smile radiated confidence. "I can if you can. Race you."
She pushed off, standing on her pedals, gliding along the short downhill stretch. Then she began to pump hard as she turned right, heading up Rattlesnake Pike. He let her get a head start, admiring the view and certain he could catch up.
JD licked his lips and followed after her, inhaling the intoxicating perfume of his last summer of freedom.
CHAPTER 8