Eva tilted her head and screwed up her face. “It’s raining, Mommy. He wouldn’t run in the rain.”
“I don’t know,” Molly said, trying to remain lighthearted. “Your dad’s been known to do some pretty crazy things, and running in the rain just so happens to be one of them.”
“He’s not coming back, is he?” Eva speared some egg with her fork.
“Eva. Don’t you even think that. Of course he’s coming back.”
“We need to find him, Mom.” Suddenly there was desperation in her voice. Calling Molly “Mom” instead of “Mommy” meant Eva was as serious as she got.
“He’ll come back on his own.”
“Mom, we have to find him now.” She dropped her fork, on the verge of panic.
“Why, Eva? Why do we have to find him right now?”
“‘Cause Jacob said he’s gonna do something bad. We can’t let him.”
Molly leaned on the counter opposite Eva and looked her straight in the eyes. “Baby, I’m going to tell you this one more time, and then I want you to drop it, you hear? Jacob isn’t real. He’s part of your imagination. I don’t mind you having an imaginary friend, but you have to know the difference between real and make-believe. Daddy is just fine, and he’s coming back home. I promise.” Truth was, though, she had no idea where he was, if he was fine, or if he was coming home again.
Eva’s eyes filled with tears and her chin quivered. “Jacob is real, Mommy. You don’t know ‘cause he doesn’t show himself to you, but he is. He is. He said I have to pray for Daddy, and you should too.”
“I do,” Molly said, taking Eva’s little hand in hers. “I pray for him all the time.”
“Then why won’t you believe me?” And with that she slipped off the stool and ran from the kitchen.
Molly gave her a few minutes to settle herself then went after her.
Forty-Nine
FROM HIS PERCH IN THE WOODS, HIS CLOTHES NEARLY soaked through, Sam Travis watched his wife and daughter leave the house in the Explorer. He waited until the vehicle disappeared over a rise before emerging from the woods and making his way back across the field and his yard. The back door was locked, the front door too. No worries, though. He found the spare key under the clay planter, just where Molly had hidden it months ago.
Inside, the house was quiet. He’d gotten used to being home alone, but for some reason this time it felt … foreign, like he was breaking into a stranger’s house to see what valuables they may have concealed in their underwear drawers.
“Molly. Eva.”
He had no idea why he said their names out loud. He’d just seen them drive off. Still, he made one sweep of the first floor just to make sure. Then it was up to the second floor. He checked the bedrooms, the bathroom, found no one hiding under any beds or in any closets. He was alone.
He stuffed a duffel bag with two pairs of pants, two long sleeve T-shirts, a sweatshirt, socks, underwear, and his old sneakers. He would only be gone one night. After zipping the bag, he went to the study and got his rifle. The ammo magazine was in the top drawer of his dresser. The scope was in there as well. He put the scope in the duffel bag, the magazine in his pocket, and balanced the rifle in his hands. It felt good, like holding the hand of an old sweetheart.
Sitting at his desk, he pulled the manila folder from the drawer and fingered through the writings. He removed the first entry, the one that had started this whole journey, and read it over again. The words had never seemed more like his own. After all, they were his, weren’t they? Written with his own hand. He still hadn’t a clue who Samuel Whiting was. For all he knew, he was Samuel Whiting.
Samuel Travis was Samuel Whiting.
They were one, in spirit if in nothing else. Separated by over a century but bonded in will.
Grabbing a pen from the penholder Eva had made him last year for Father’s Day, Sam scribbled his own message on the bottom of the sheet and signed his name to it. That solidified it. He and Samuel Whiting were now one in purpose as well.
Fifty
TOMORROW WAS THE BIG DAY. THE MISSION WOULD BE fulfilled, and then maybe Symon could get some answers. Answers to questions that had begun to gnaw at him, to eat away at his mind like termites—questions about who he was, where he’d come from, and why he knew so much but felt nothing. He had this overwhelming, almost sickening, desire to be someone, anyone. A name, an identity, a history. He yearned for it like a starving man craves sustenance of any kind. He needed it. And he’d do anything for it.
Symon studied his own eyes in the rearview mirror. They were familiar yet strangely alien. Dark shadows colored the skin beneath them. He’d slept in the Intrepid last night, or at least attempted to sleep. The front seat didn’t recline far enough, and his head kept rolling to one side, giving him cramps in his neck, but the backseat was much too small. He was used to sleeping flat on his back, with legs outstretched and hands folded on his chest—like a stiff in a coffin.
His eyes were green, with flecks of brown and gray. He thought it odd that you saw your own face multiple times a day and never failed to recognize it, but when you looked at your eyes, really looked at them, they seemed so much like the eyes of another. There was something about his eyes, something that almost frightened him. To look deeply into them was to peer into the soul of someone—or something—evil, dark, malevolent.
He thought about the gunshots that had done him in. He remembered them clearly now. He was standing in that trailer, and the bruiser had shot him. Three times in the chest. Why three? Why did Symon feel a need to shoot his targets three times? It failed to make sense to him. He had a trio of circular scars on his chest, each about the size of a nickel. Entry wounds. One just above his left nipple, two near his right collarbone. Clearly they hadn’t been fatal, but they would have certainly put him in the hospital.
The hospital? Another memory shot through his mind …
Bright lights, voices, flat and businesslike, white walls and ceiling, gloved hands, the smell of latex and rubbing alcohol. And pain, searing pain, throughout his chest cavity. It felt as if he’d been run through with a hot poker. He tried to scream, but his throat produced no sound. Something was jammed down it. He tried to suck in a deep breath, but it was like breathing through a straw. Strong hands held his arms and legs as he thrashed and flailed about. Then there was nothing.
The memory faded just as quickly as it had come.
Symon rubbed at his eyes and glanced in the mirror again. He looked so tired. His hand moved to the scars on his chest. They were still soft and pliable yet no longer tender, and by this he figured they were months old, no more than a year.
Anyway, none of that mattered now. What mattered was completing the mission. The voice on the phone had finally directed him to a new location, a home where he could take the target after securing her. And the one he was looking at now was a good choice. It was a large, white, two-story, neoclassical Greek Revival, with four columns running from porch to pediment. A lane branched off Fairfield Road and traveled a good two hundred yards to a small crest before offering even a glimpse of the place. From there, it was another two hundred yards to the front steps. The occupants were two widows, sisters, both in their seventies.
Symon spent a few more seconds letting the Intrepid idle at the crest of the rise where he’d gotten that first glimpse of the house. Finally he shifted the car into drive and slowly covered the last two hundred yards. In front of the home he cut the engine and got out. It was still raining lightly. Symon hated the rain and made quick work of the thirty feet to the porch.
Wicker furniture—a sofa, coffee table, and four chairs with flowered cushions—adorned the porch, but other than that it was bare and simple. He found the front door open and, without knocking, went in uninvited. A cavernous interior met him, distinguished by ten-foot ceilings, hardwood parquet flooring, Federalist furniture, and a winding staircase. The widows obviously hoped to live out the remainder of their days in comfort.
From the back
of the house came the sounds of a classical piece, Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata.”
Symon followed the music. There, beyond the staircase, hall, kitchen, and great room, he found a sprawling sunroom with three glass walls overlooking a field that ran for acres to a distant tree line. Midway between the house and trees one leafless willow stood by a pond, its bare branches dangling like lifeless tentacles. In the sunroom the sisters sat in separate chairs, each lost in a book.
They hadn’t yet noticed the stranger watching them.
Symon took one step closer, and a floorboard creaked under his weight. The plumper sister looked up, startled, and dropped her book in her lap.
“Oh, you scared me,” she said.
The other sister spun around to face Symon. “Why … can we help you?”
He approached them with relaxed, even strides. He pointed beyond the glass to the willow. “Did you know willows are considered guardian trees? They’re said to ward off evil and protect the good.” He had no idea how he knew that.
The plump widow stood. “I had no idea. Are you the landscape gentleman we talked to on the phone?”
Symon smiled. “I hardly think so.”
The sisters looked at each other, and he saw worry lines deepen on their faces. It must have been something in his voice. The thinner of the two started to stand as well.
“Please,” Symon said. “Ladies. Please sit back down and relax.”
The plump one straightened her shoulders. “I will not sit down. What’s the meaning of this? What are you here for?”
Her sister sat slowly. “Margaret … please.”
“Shush, Louise, let me handle this.”
“Ladies, please,” Symon said again, trying to sound cordial and regain control of the scene. “I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding.”
Margaret returned to her chair but kept her shoulders squared and her back rigid. She obviously did not like his intrusion and was not impressed by his knowledge of local flora.
Symon took a deep breath and bowed slightly. “My name is Hector Montoya, and I come bearing good news.”
Louise’s hands went to her chest. “Oh. Margaret, did you hear that?”
Margaret narrowed her eyes. “You don’t look like a Hector Montoya.”
“Yes,” Symon said. “My mother didn’t think so either. She wanted to name me Edward, but my father insisted. It was his grandfather’s name.”
“What’s the good news?” Louise said. Her eyes were expectant and wide, and a smile stretched across her thin face.
Symon took two steps closer. “First, I must ask you ladies a question. Do I look at all familiar to you?”
His question caught them off guard, and they both studied him in stunned silence. Louise looked at Margaret then at Symon. “I don’t believe I know any Hector Montoya.”
“Regardless of the name, do I look familiar?”
She looked confused. “But you said your name was Hector, after your grandfather.”
“Ladies—”
“Is your name Hector or not?” Margaret’s tone more than hinted at her doubt.
“Forget the name,” Symon said. His frustration was showing, and he knew it. This couldn’t last much longer. “Look at my face. Is it familiar to you?”
“I said you didn’t look like a Hector Montoya,” Margaret said.
Louise pointed a finger at him. “A Hector maybe, but not a Montoya. You must take after your mother’s family.”
Symon had had enough. Pulling the pistol from his jacket pocket, he pointed it at Margaret. The sisters said nothing; neither did they exchange a glance. They were startled into momentary paralysis.
After the initial shock passed, the sisters shared a glance and Louise said, “Is there no good news, then?”
“I’m afraid not.” Symon sighed—a dramatic gesture, he knew, but it seemed appropriate. “I think there’s only one thing to do.”
He pointed the gun at Margaret and squeezed the trigger. The pistol spit, and before Margaret had time to flinch or holler she was punched back into the chair so hard that it toppled over and left her with legs pointed upward. Louise let out a weak squeal as Symon swung the pistol and put a round in her too. She jerked sideways and slumped in her chair.
The melancholy piano of “Moonlight Sonata” seemed to fill the room again. Symon walked from Margaret to Louise and made sure he finished the job with two more rounds each. It had to be three apiece. He stood in the middle of the room, gazed out at the willow, then down at the bodies—and felt nothing.
And it bothered him.
Fifty-One
SAM PULLED HIS WORK TRUCK OFF STEINWEHR AVENUE INTO a parking space at the Americana Motel. He entered the office and paid cash for a one-night stay in a room on the north end. When the middle-aged woman behind the counter asked for his name, he told her it was Anthony Mundis. He’d gone to elementary school with a Brian Mundis, but the name had no particular significance; it was just the first thing that popped into his head.
Room 230 was nicely furnished, with a mahogany desk, dresser, and TV stand. The bed was a queen-size job with a flowery comforter, flanked by brass lamps on nightstands. The room smelled like cinnamon and sugar.
Sam made sure the door was locked, then tossed the duffel bag onto the bed. He moved to the large casement windows. From here on the second floor he had a clear view east across Steinwehr, across Taneytown Road, toward the Gettysburg National Cemetery, its barren late-November trees, and the rostrum, a rectangular, brick platform on the cemetery’s southeast end.
The view was perfect.
He went back to the bed and took the scope from his bag. Then he cranked open the window, removed the screen, and pulled the curtain closed so only a sliver of sunlight slipped through. Dropping to one knee, Sam held the scope to his eye. The rostrum was a good four hundred yards away, a distance he hadn’t tried since he was a kid but used to hit regularly. His farthest shot with a scope was nearly five hundred yards. He’d hit a plastic milk jug, center left.
At this time in the morning, this time of year, the cemetery was mostly empty. One older couple stood by the Gettysburg Address memorial, directly behind the rostrum. They were holding hands, and the man was running his finger along the text engraved in granite. Sam had once visited the cemetery with Molly and Eva. He remembered Molly reading the speech aloud with such awe and reverence. Now he thought nothing of it. His mind was focused on the mission at hand.
After dumping his things in the room, he headed back to his truck and pointed it north toward Shippensburg. He needed to ditch this vehicle and get a replacement. He figured Shippensburg University, in a neighboring county, was as good a place as any. If he took a car after dark, its student-owner most likely wouldn’t notice until well into the next day, and then the initial bulletin would only circulate countywide.
Shippensburg was a good forty minutes from Gettysburg, on tangled roads that wound through miles of apple orchards, Michaux State Forest, and over Piney Mountain. But Sam wasn’t paying attention to the scenery. He was planning his next move.
On the edge of the forest he veered onto a seldom-used service road and steered the truck into a clearing. There he would leave it, white rag wedged in the driver’s side door frame. Any drivers-by would assume the truck had either run out of gas or broken down. And it could be days before a forest ranger took notice.
He wasn’t far from the campus here. He’d wait until sundown, then make his way over to the student parking lot.
The afternoon passed slowly for Sam, and he spent most of it avoiding thoughts of Eva and Molly. The patter of rain on the windshield lulled him into fitful sleep where he dreamt of Eva’s voice outside the study door—Daddy, please, I love you. He awakened suddenly, sweaty yet chilled, breathing rapidly. Climbing from the vehicle, he stood in the cool rain until the stressful feelings passed, then got back in, turned on the engine, and cranked the heat until the arrhythmic tap-tapping of droplets caused him to doze again. Fortuna
tely he had no encounters with Tommy and no fugues where he became a medium through which Samuel Whiting expressed himself. He was only haunted by his daughter’s panicked voice.
A little after five o’clock the sky was darkened enough that Sam felt it safe to leave his truck and walk the two miles to Shippensburg University. Sticking to side streets and back alleys, he wove through the college town unnoticed.
Nearly soaked and shivering uncontrollably, he reached the campus and began checking vehicles in a dormitory parking lot. It didn’t take him long to find a late-model, maroon Ford Escort with a spare key hidden in a magnetized box under the rear corner of the chasis.
He started the car and put the heat on max.
Fifty-Two
THE NIGHT AIR WAS COOL, BORDERLINE CHILLY, BUT MOLLY Travis didn’t care. Poor Eva had spent the whole evening watching out the front window, waiting for Sam to come home, but he never showed. At eight, her regular bedtime, Eva all but threw a fit, something very unlike her, because her daddy still hadn’t returned. She was convinced something had happened to him, something awful, or that he had done something very naughty.
Molly had climbed into bed with her daughter and sang her a lullaby. Eva was so tired from the worrying and pacing and questioning—oh, the endless questioning—that once she stopped fighting, she slipped into sleep with a shudder.
A quarter to ten. At last Molly could have a few moments of silence.
The rain had stopped, so she carried the cordless phone out to a seat on the patio and watched bats fly erratic circles in the night sky. She hoped her husband would call. For now, though, she was alone with her thoughts, a place she wasn’t entirely comfortable being, especially with the direction her thoughts were taking her.
Sam’s unpredictable behavior had grown quite disturbing. She knew some of it was caused by the brain injury, of course it was. Dr. Sullivan had told her to expect mood swings, depression, even sporadic psychotic behaviors such as hallucinations and paranoia. Now Sam was displaying all of them. It was a perfect storm of side effects, the meeting of every negative outcome. But there was something else about him, something unrelated to the brain injury, that wasn’t right.
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