Don't Move

by James S. Murray

  Her family was gone.

  Chapter

  Two

  nine months later

  Megan sat behind the wheel of her parked Lincoln Navigator, watching the sun rise over the Bronx. She turned up the air-conditioning to beat back the already building heat of a stifling New York summer. Outside, dew glimmered on the asphalt of the small parking lot. No lights were on inside the drab single-story brick building of Our Lady of Saints Church. She was the first to arrive.

  This camping trip was Megan’s first serious excursion outside the house since that horrific day last fall. Her first vacation without Mike and Ethan. A positive step that she knew she needed to take. Once again the sleeping pills hadn’t worked, so she had set out early. It was a choice between leaving the house or giving in to depression, mentally talking herself into another day of seclusion. Megan was determined to get her life back on track, no matter how hard her inner demons fought to keep her down.

  Mike and Ethan would hate to see me like this. Those demons can return to hell.

  These thoughts had proved hard to act on. The early morning emptiness of the church reflected her feelings. Ever since that fateful night in New Jersey, nothing had replaced her sense of loss. The gut-wrenching images of her son’s and husband’s final moments. The long burn scar on her right forearm providing a constant, painful reminder.

  And the knowledge that someone had uploaded footage of the disaster onto the internet for all eternity. Some unfeeling ghoul had filmed part of the carnage on a smartphone, capturing the moment Mike and Ethan’s chair slammed into the food stand. YouTube had quickly taken it down, but not before less savory sites—untouchable from US soil—had copied the video and posted it, with no regard for her or for any of the other victims’ families.

  But those bastards wouldn’t drag her down.

  Megan thought back to how different her life was only nine months ago. Running the day-to-day operations of Hunts Point, the largest food distribution center in the world, was no easy task. She handled the logistics of moving nearly half the meat, produce, and fish in the Northeast each day and oversaw more than two billion dollars in annual sales. The job was a nearly impossible daily puzzle: how to get perishable items into stores and onto people’s tables before they expired, any and every way possible. Rail, truck, boat, plane—she oversaw it all. Every day was a different challenge. The job invigorated her, and in such an old-school, male-dominated industry with so many larger-than-life personalities, she had to admit, it felt great to be on top. She had earned her reputation as the ultimate puzzle solver through her intellect, instinct, and logistical skills.

  The accident had stripped her of all that. In the space of a moment, it all had ceased to matter.

  She had to try to get her life back on track, and today was the first step in that direction.

  At seven a.m. sharp, a rust-speckled white bus pulled into the parking lot, belching smoke from its exhaust pipe. It had Our Lady of Saints painted on the side and could probably carry fifteen at a push. She had hardly visited Mike’s old church since his funeral. On the rare occasions that she did, Pastor Rizzo had offered a shoulder to cry on and, most recently, a place on the bus for this outing.

  Why not? she’d thought back then. It wouldn’t be a wild party—it was a church camping trip, after all. Maybe it was just what she needed to ease her way back into society.

  The passenger door on the bus rattled open. It was the old folding type. The church was not exactly blessed with money, but she knew they did great work in the community: rehab programs, volunteer work, charity events. The small congregation pulled its weight despite the lack of financial resources.

  Pastor Rizzo, his white hair matching his shirt and pants, clambered down the steps until his sandals crunched against the gravel. He smiled in the direction of her car. Warm and sincere. The man was genuine, and though she had shunned his offers of regular counseling, she liked and trusted him.

  Megan turned off the engine and popped the hatch. Climbed out of the Lincoln and went around to the back.

  Rizzo came over. “Good to see you, Megan. Let me help you with those bags.”

  “It’s okay. I’ve got it.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive. But thank you.”

  Grief didn’t make her incapable of doing basic tasks. She had fiercely maintained her independence. She needed it to keep herself sane.

  “We’ve got a bunch of good folks coming along,” Rizzo said. “Have you met my daughter, Emma, yet?”

  “Hmm, I don’t think so.”

  “She’ll make you feel part of the group, don’t you worry. Are you excited to see West Virginia?”

  “For sure,” she lied.

  Excitement wasn’t quite the right word. Maybe resigned. Or resolute. She had to try to get back some semblance of normality. She was determined to try.

  Megan heaved out her backpack and closed the hatch, then hit the lock button. The lights on the SUV blinked.

  Rizzo walked with her toward the small bus. “If you ever feel like talking—”

  “Honestly, I’m okay. You don’t need to worry about me on this trip.”

  “I’m just saying. No pressure. I’ll be here if you need to talk. Besides, a few days camping in a forest is a great way to unwind.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping for.”

  Megan appreciated his offer to listen, but if she was being honest with herself, talking any more about it was only making things worse. After countless therapy sessions over the past nine months, they were starting to feel as if they did more harm than good. They had an inconvenient way of keeping mental wounds open, the memories fresh and stark. None of it was Pastor Rizzo’s fault, of course. She just wanted to enjoy some time in the wilderness, taking in the natural splendor while getting a momentary reprieve from her guilt. From her anger.

  You could have done more. What if you had . . .

  She stopped herself. This was precisely why she had chosen to go on this trip: to be around other people again and not let herself drown in what-ifs.

  A man in his early fifties, dressed like a model from a North Face catalog in his branded boots, hiking pants, and camouflage jacket, opened the side cargo hold of the bus. His slicked-back hair and the strong scent of his cologne seemed at odds with his clothing—and maybe with this trip.

  “Hey there, I’m your driver slash semiprofessional wilderness guide, Paul DeLuca. Good to have you on board. Ready for some high adventure?”

  She shook his hand. “Megan Forrester. Nice to meet you. Hope you brought a map.”

  DeLuca laughed and tapped the side of his head. “Young lady, I am the map. We’ll find out soon enough, won’t we?”

  She smiled at him. “Yep, after seven hours of driving first . . .”

  “Don’t forget about the two-hour hike after that to get to the campsite before dark,” he added. “Damn, I better review that map after all, huh?” He laughed and loaded her backpack into the compartment.

  She liked his sense of humor. Easy and light. Megan turned and boarded the bus.

  For whatever reason, Pastor Rizzo followed her inside. She hoped he wouldn’t act as her shadow for the entire long weekend.

  The temperature inside was the same as outside, making her glad she’d dressed in layers. She slipped off her jacket. This was shaping up to be a T-shirt kind of day. A faint odor of stale cigarette smoke hung in the air, though an old citrus air freshener battled it for dominance.

  Megan considered her seat selection. She planned to ease herself into this trip. Sitting on her own, listening, watching, and getting a read on the rest of the group would be a good start. She wasn’t sure she’d know any of her fellow campers anyway. She made her way to the rear of the bus and sat on the left side. The cream upholstery had seen better days, but it appeared clean at least.

  Moments
later, a minivan swept past the bus and parked next to Megan’s SUV. An old couple, gray-haired with matching red waterproof jackets, got out of the front. The woman slid open the side door, and a young child jumped to the concrete. Possibly around eight years old. Also wearing the same red waterproof jacket, which she guessed was standard issue in their family. They grabbed their packs and headed over to DeLuca.

  “That’s Jim and Maryann, and their grandson, Connor,” Pastor Rizzo said. “Nice family from Melrose. You’ll love some of Jim’s stories about 1960s New York.”

  “A bit of a character?”

  “He’s got character to spare.”

  The grandparents, maybe in their midseventies, moved with youthful vigor. It appeared to Megan that they had spent a lot of time outdoors. They loaded their backpacks and a large cooler into the cargo hold, then boarded the bus.

  Rizzo moved along the aisle to greet them. He turned and introduced Megan. The group exchanged pleasantries, and the family took seats in the middle of the bus.

  The pastor glanced at his watch and gazed toward the road.

  They were due to depart in five minutes. Much later, and they’d be hiking through darkness this evening.

  Rizzo breathed a sigh of relief when a 1990s Pontiac Firebird entered the parking lot and crunched to a halt in the last parking space. A slim brunette in a pale tracksuit got out on the passenger side. Megan recognized her from a few previous visits to the church. Only in passing, though she assumed this was Rizzo’s daughter. A stocky man with a shaved head got out on the driver’s side. DeLuca warmly welcomed them, and they loaded their packs and followed him onto the bus.

  The couple, perhaps a shade younger than Megan’s thirty years, took the front seats. Both carried breakfast meals from McDonald’s. Ethan had loved the Happy Meals and always dug straight into the box for the toy.

  Stop torturing yourself, Megan.

  DeLuca sat behind the wheel.

  The bus’s engine roared to life.

  “Guys,” Rizzo said in a raised voice, “this is my daughter, Emma, and her boyfriend, Ryan. You’ll all have plenty of time to catch up on our way to West Virginia. Everyone ready for a great weekend?”

  A couple of muted yeses.

  Awkward.

  Rizzo glanced around at the passengers. “Oh, come on. You can do better than that. I said, are we ready to go!?”

  This time, everyone, including Megan, murmured a response.

  It was perhaps too early to elicit the reply he’d hoped for. Also, the tone of the pastor’s question didn’t feel quite right, as if they were all children heading to Disney World, rather than a group of adults going on a sedate camping trip. Still, Megan admired his enthusiasm.

  “How about we crank up the AC?” DeLuca announced through the address system.

  The ceiling fans whirred. Soon, cooler air flooded into the bus, knocking off the warm edge. Megan guessed that at this point, the heat was the least of their worries. The sylvan splendors of West Virginia lay ahead, that is, if they could make it there without breaking down on 78 West first.

  Still, she already felt comfortable among this group. So far no one appeared to be a drama queen, waiting to go off at the first hiccup. That suited her and what she needed right now, and she looked forward to an uneventful trip as the bus pulled away.

  Chapter

  Three

  Ricky Vargas walked in front of the parking lot entrance, directly in front of the departing bus, blocking its exit. He had made it despite a raging hangover. One too many shots of tequila last night with the guys. Five hundred smackers down on the poker game too. But this little jaunt into the great outdoors paled all that into insignificance.

  A few yards in front of him, the bus juddered to a halt.

  Vargas readjusted his grip on the straps of a heavy carryall that he’d slung over his shoulder.

  His black leather jacket creaked.

  He dropped his smoke on the pavement and crushed it under his boot.

  This should be interesting.

  Behind the dark windshield, both Pastor Rizzo and the driver got up from their seats. The door rattled open, and they came out to meet him. Surprised by his presence, to be sure. Their faces couldn’t conceal the fact that they considered him a monkey wrench in their works. Rizzo gave him an inauthentic smile.

  “Yo, Pastor Rizzo,” Vargas said. “Got room for one more?”

  “Hello, Richard,” Rizzo replied, and Vargas heard the defensive edge. “I must say, I’m surprised to see you here. We haven’t seen you at Mass in months.”

  Richard. Only Ricky’s mother called him that before she died—and, annoyingly, so did the pastor, ever since Vargas dated his daughter a year ago. Pastor Rizzo hadn’t been too keen on the matchup. While dating Emma, Vargas had attended Our Lady of Whatever the Hell to be polite. But he stopped going after she dumped him.

  “Been busy,” Vargas replied. “You know how it is. Anyway, a ride to the wilderness seemed like a good idea. You know, chill for a bit, lose the Bronx heat for a weekend. That sort of shit.”

  “You wanna come camping with the church group?” DeLuca asked with a hint of disbelief.

  “That’s right. Don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure. Name’s Ricky Vargas. Most people call me Vargas.” He shot a look at the pastor.

  “I’m Paul DeLuca.”

  They shook hands. It was like gripping wet lettuce.

  “I mean, all are welcome, right, Pastor Rizzo?” Vargas asked. “I mean, that’s what the flyer posted in the grocery store said.”

  “Yes,” Rizzo replied. “All our parishioners are welcome, even those who have strayed. And you’re sure you want to come?”

  “Hundred percent. I love this shit.”

  The pastor glanced back to the bus. “Okay, but you should know, Emma’s here with her new boyfriend.”

  “New boyfriend. Got it,” Vargas replied. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna make any trouble. We’ll all be making s’mores by sunset.”

  “I’m not sure Ryan will see it that way,” Pastor Rizzo replied.

  Vargas grunted a laugh. “Ryan . . . Andrews? That jacked-up mechanic from Soundview? Ha-ha, don’t worry, boss. He won’t get any hassle from me.”

  “I hope not.” Rizzo looked puzzled. “Honestly, I never took you for the outdoors type.”

  “What can I say? Appearances can be deceptive.”

  “They sure can. It’s just that given your . . . colorful past . . .”

  “What’s all that stuff you say about turning the other cheek?” Vargas asked. “Surely you believe people can change, Pastor Rizzo.”

  “Yes, of course I do.”

  “So let me prove it to you. I’ve done my time; I’m done with all that. Just looking for a break from this hellhole, a break from this life. I thought the church could help me with that. Was I wrong?”

  “No, of course not,” the pastor replied.

  “Good, because the tent I bought isn’t refundable. Neither are my Cup O’Noodles.”

  The pastor and the driver glanced nervously at each other. Vargas could see the gears spinning in their minds, trying to come up with a way to deter him from joining their little expedition. Some excuse to keep their saintly consciences clear. That wasn’t happening.

  “So? Can I join?”

  “Okay, Richard. But I’ll warn you right now, any fooling around and you’ll have to leave immediately.”

  Vargas grinned. “That’s my man. Right there.”

  “Just behave,” Rizzo pleaded. “We’ve got a mixed group on the trip, and the last thing we need is anyone causing friction.”

  “You’ve got my word, Pastor Rizzo.”

  The pastor nodded to the driver, who dutifully moved to the side of the bus and opened the luggage compartment. He extended a hand toward Vargas.

  �
��Pass me your bag.”

  “God helps those who help themselves, right? I got it.”

  Vargas walked past him, ducked down, and stuffed his large carryall in the far corner. Nobody was touching his gear, just as he wouldn’t mess with theirs. He followed Rizzo and DeLuca onto the bus.

  Emma stared, openmouthed. Ryan glared at him through narrowed eyes.

  “And good morning, everyone,” Vargas said.

  Emma let out a deep sigh and turned toward the window.

  “What’s he doing here?” Ryan snapped to Rizzo.

  It sounded more like a demand to Ricky. Clearly, Emma’s new boyfriend felt at ease calling the shots in the Rizzo household.

  “Same as you,” Vargas said before the pastor could answer. “We’re going camping, right? Now, if you don’t mind, I’m gonna catch some z’s.”

  He continued down the aisle before the situation escalated. Ryan Andrews was a pain he didn’t need. Yes, Vargas had ripped him off a few years ago. And yes, the guy knew that Vargas used to date his girl. But for now, best to avoid any heat.

  A woman sat at the back-left corner of the bus. He thought he recognized her from somewhere, though she looked a little clean-cut to be one of his acquaintances. Prim, wholesome, staid. His polar opposite.

  Vargas peeled off his jacket and flopped down on the opposite seat. The cure for his hangover was sleep, and he guessed she wouldn’t disturb him.

  The woman eyed the ink on his forearms: one of a snake wrapped around a dagger; the other a full sleeve he’d gotten while drunk. In fact, he still didn’t know what some of the images were supposed to mean.

  “Do I know you?” he asked.

  “Sorry?” she replied meekly.

  “I’m Ricky.”

  “Megan.”

  “You look familiar. Wait, do you work at the restaurant Escape Latino?”

  “No. I don’t work anywhere at the moment.”

  “Same here,” Ricky replied. “I guess that makes us soul mates.”

  She smiled cautiously. “If you say so.”

  The address system crackled. DeLuca came over it saying, “All right, folks. Now that we’re on the road, let me give you a bit of information about our trip, starting with the mysterious history of the region.”