by Bobby Adair
And rang.
He paced over to the glass wall and stared down at Spring Creek. Every police car and ambulance in Summit County seemed to be down there. His wife and daughter were missing. Two sets of circumstances that never should have happened were happening at the same time. No connection could exist, yet they had to be tied. Somehow. “This doesn’t make any sense?”
Tommy scanned the dark mountains down the valley, trying to find the spots where he’d seen the last three explosions. He couldn’t pinpoint them. No emergency vehicles were winding up the switchbacks. None were clustered around the crime scenes.
Not a one.
That was odd.
Everything was screwed up.
A breath across his neck startled him, and Tommy spun around, bumping into Summer.
She stumbled away. “Sorry.”
“I didn’t hear you come back in.”
“I couldn’t get anyone to pick up.”
“I need to go down there. I need to get to the police station.” Tommy pushed past her and rushed through an apology.
Summer put a hand out to catch him. “Let me drive.”
Why?
Summer read Tommy’s face, grabbed his wrist and turned his hand palm up. He was still shivering from an overload of anger.
“The last thing you want is to cause an accident.” Summer headed for the door, giving Tommy the voyeur’s view once more.
“You should put on some pants or something.”
“I have—” Summer looked down at what she was wearing and stopped herself. “They’re the latest thing.” She shrugged an apology and hurried back to the stairs. “I’ll just be a minute.”
***
Tommy dialed Emma’s number from his cellphone.
Straight to voicemail.
He dialed Faith. Same result.
He tried to find them using the device locator app they all three shared. No luck.
Call Faith’s parents?
Summer’s quiet feet were padding around in the room above, barely audible over the keen of the sirens down in town.
No, I can’t call them yet. Not until I know something.
Tommy opened a news app to get an idea of what was going on.
“Down in a sec’,” Summer called.
Tommy read the headlines.
Kim Kardashian’s Fifth Divorce Finalized
Hazelton Vows to Fight ‘Illegal’ Impeachment
Inflation to Top 27% This Year
Salmonella Outbreak Claims Thirty-Third Victim
Dismal Box Office Leaves Hollywood Panicked
Protests on the National Mall Enter Eleventh Day
Supreme Court Impeachment Proceedings Begin After Minority Walks Out
Consumer Confidence Hits All-Time Low
Different flavors of useless noise.
Tommy opened his Facebook app, his sad alternative when the news sites weren’t up-to-the-minute. “What the hell?”
Summer poked her head into the office. “What?”
Tommy hurried toward the door.
Summer started down a hall. “The garage is this way. What are you what-the-helling about?”
Tommy showed her the image at the top of his Facebook Newsfeed. A volcano was spewing magma in the middle of Spring Creek. “How do they Photoshop this shit so fast?”
“Maybe it was pre-made.”
That didn’t make any sense.
***
Summer sped down the mountain as casually as someone used to doing it. She was in her early forties, was as pretty as a prom queen, and as far as Tommy knew, had always had money. She’d probably been bending the rules her whole life.
And had always gotten away with it.
She was just the kind of person Tommy liked to resent when the mood was on him. But then again, so was Faith. Growing up in a home where the disconnect notices were always on the door and the rent was always past due made it hard not to despise the kids whose parents dropped them at school in their shiny BMWs.
Some things were hard to shake for good.
“When was the last time you talked to Faith?” asked Summer.
“Four days ago.” Tommy felt like an asshole. “I’ve been stuck on a contract in Houston for five weeks. She was pissed because I didn’t make it home for that art thing last weekend.”
“The Blue River Art Walk. She’s on the board and you don’t even know the name?”
“She’s on lots of boards.”
“No wonder.”
Tommy felt the atmosphere in the car turn colder. “No wonder, what?”
“She organized the Art Walk. She started the festival sixteen years ago and now it brings nearly thirty thousand tourists up here every year. It’s a big deal for Spring Creek.”
“I know it’s a big deal.” Tommy turned to watch the trees whiz past his passenger window, though he wanted to snap at Summer and tell her he had more important things to worry about than an art show.
“Did you have to work, or was work just your excuse not to go?”
“You must harbor a lot of anger at your ex.” Through four years of living next door, Tommy hadn’t dined with Summer and Faith more than a handful of times. Summer had always been opinionated and intense, but now she seemed to be picking a fight. “Not everybody lives in a fishbowl full of money. Some of us have bills to pay.”
“Tell me the truth.” Summer turned onto the two-lane highway that led into town.
“I told you I feel guilty for not showing up.”
“Just words. You didn’t go last year, either.”
“Look,” Tommy was becoming angry, “I appreciate the ride into town. I really do, but we can go back and pick up my car if you don’t want to do this.”
“You’re just like my ex.”
“I take it that’s not a compliment.”
“No. He was a greedy-eyed asshole just like you. Always working, because however much money he had it wasn’t enough. Maybe Faith got tired of raising your daughter for you and finally left.”
“Maybe she got tired of your self-righteous bullshit and took a cruise.”
“Do many people tell you to go fuck yourself?”
“You’d be surprised.”
“Probably not,” said Summer. “Why didn’t you come home from your little business trip to go to the Art Walk?”
“Why are we talking about this?” snapped Tommy.
“Because it’s important.”
“And it’s none of your business.”
“Why?”
“Christ!” Tommy gave in. “The Art Walk used to be about Art. You know, vendors in booths, and greasy food, and music. A fun weekend to get a little too buzzed and maybe pay too much for a garish painting to hide on a wall upstairs. The last three or four years it turned political, with hot-issue themes, with speakers, and too many people badgering you to sign their pointless petitions.”
Summer huffed.
“Can’t a man just have a funnel cake and a beer while his wife buys a tie-dyed sundress from a new-age hippie?” asked Tommy. “Does everything in this country have to be about politics and platforms nowadays?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re fighting to save our democracy.”
“Isn’t everybody?”
“Is that all you have?” growled Summer. “Cynicism?”
“I was gonna go with sarcasm, but I came up empty.” That killed the conversation. And for a whole second, it felt like victory. The next second, though, felt like guilt. And so did the ones after that. “Look, I don’t want to—”
“Emma spoke.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Tommy, as he noticed a helicopter in the air. It was following the highway slowly to the west, like it was searching for something.
“You don’t even know, do you?”
“I haven’t solved the mystery yet.”
“Looks like your sarcasm came back.”
“I have a talent,” replied Tommy.
“Emma, your daughter, my best friend’s stepdaughter, has grown into a gifted public speaker.”
“She just turned sixteen.”
“Yet she’s smart enough to see what our generation is doing to the country we’re going to leave for her generation and she’s trying to save it.”
Tommy sighed. He’d never seen Summer’s political face before, yet he knew Faith had a zealous side that she politely kept under wraps when he was in town. It made sense that Summer was the same way. “So what? You two influenced Emma and—”
“And what,” snapped Summer, “turned her into our little parrot?”
Tommy almost nodded, but shrugged instead. Cars in front of them were slowing down. Police lights were flashing on the road up ahead.
“Emma has been speaking at events like the Blue River Art Walk for a year now, and you didn’t even know.”
Tommy didn’t.
“She’s not on our side, and she’s not on their side,” said Summer. “She’s not like that. If anything, she’s on the side of compassion and intelligence. She tells all of us to grow up, stop bickering, and get back to working together to build the America our fathers dreamed about. Only when she says it, it sounds like Martin Luther King telling you he has a dream, or Kennedy imploring us to go to the moon.” Summer’s voice cracked, and Tommy saw a glisten of tears in her eyes. “I don’t understand how Emma can be what she is at sixteen, but Tommy Joss, you need to know one thing about your daughter if you don’t know anything else—”
“I know my daughter.”
“—she’s the best of us. She’s the hope none of us ever knew to pray for.”
Tommy didn’t know what to say.
“There were so many people in the amphitheater last Saturday,” said Summer.” I think half of them came up from Denver just to hear her. It would have brought tears to your eyes. It did for everyone else who was there.” Summer glanced over at Tommy. “That’s why Faith was so angry at you. She wanted you to hear Emma speak. She wanted it to be a surprise.”
The last time Tommy had talked to his daughter had been the Wednesday before the Art Walk. That was ten days ago. He felt like a shit.
“The road up here is blocked,” said Summer.
Tommy leaned to the right to try to see around the pickup just ahead of them. He saw the rear end of a police car sitting across the lane, lights flashing. Two more vehicles were parked beyond it. No lights on top.
“Maybe it was an accident,” speculated Summer.
Hoping she was done venting her frustrations on him, Tommy said, “There was one earlier, too. On my way home.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about,” she said. “With Emma and Faith. Maybe one of them got hurt. Maybe they’re at the hospital.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
The truck ahead of Summer’s Jeep came to a stop.
“We don’t have time for this.” Summer pulled onto the shoulder without slowing down and barreled past the waiting cars.
Tommy grabbed the dashboard to hold himself steady as the Jeep bounced through the rough ditch.
A siren whooped loudly and a bright light shined through the Jeep’s windshield.
“This might not be a good idea,” said Tommy.
A policeman took up a position directly in front of the Jeep. Two other men stepped out and pointed automatic weapons at the windshield.
Chapter 3
“He’s got a machine gun,” said Tommy.
“That’s an AR-15,” Summer corrected.
Did it matter?
Tommy raised his empty hands so they’d be visible through the glass.
Summer brought the Jeep to a stop.
One of the riflemen stepped outside the beams of Summer’s headlights, while keeping his weapon aimed at the Jeep. The other one, a guy in some kind of surplus camo gear aimed his rifle at Tommy’s face and took half-steps forward while angling to the side as though he expected Summer to gun the engine and try for an escape.
The sheriff’s deputy who’d forced them to a stop stomped up to the driver’s side window, anger all over his face. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Summer wasn’t phased. “You’re just who we need to see, Deputy.”
“Ma’am. You need to turn this Jeep around and you need to get back to your home.”
Summer pointed at Tommy. “His wife and daughter were abducted. We need police assistance.”
The paramilitary guy working his way around to the passenger side of the Jeep was getting so close there would be no way he’d miss if he chose to shoot.
“Does he have to do that?” asked Tommy.
“It’s for everybody’s safety,” said the deputy. “Now, turn this thing around.”
Summer wasn’t having it. “I’m a personal friend of your boss, Sheriff Bingham. He and I—”
“I know who you are, ma’am. Sheriff Bingham is dead.”
“What?” Tommy was shocked.
“How?” demanded Summer. “What happened?
“The NonCons ran a suicide bomber into the town council meeting,” said the deputy. “Now we need everybody to go back to their homes and shelter in place until we have the situation under control.”
“What’s a NonCon?” asked Tommy, his curiosity taking over because the rest of him was too confused to react. “Is that a new ISIS or something?”
“Hazleton Nonconformists, sir.”
“What?” Tommy asked. “I saw the explosions from my deck.” He pointed back toward the golf course community, careful to keep his hands visible, careful to gesture slowly. “How could you know it was these NonCons or whatever? It just happened.”
“Sir,” he said, “we don’t come to the 7-Eleven to tell you how to stock the Slurpee machine. We don’t need your help investigating crimes.”
“That’s rude,” snapped Summer, and then she came to a realization that seemed even worse than a bomb and an implied body count. “The town council meeting? Was Mayor Casey there?”
“Dead,” answered the deputy.
Tommy went numb. Mayor Casey was his neighbor. His two daughters went to school with Emma.
Summer took it hard and buried her face in her hands. It was the first time Tommy had ever seen her vulnerable. He put a hand on her shoulder while he looked at the deputy. “Mayor Casey was our friend. Are you sure?”
“Sir, we’ve all lost friends tonight.” The deputy slapped the hood twice. “Turn this vehicle around. Go to your home. The order is to shelter in place. If you need non-emergency assistance, don’t call 911.”
As the deputy walked back to his position at the roadblock, the armed paramilitary men cautiously retreated. That’s when Tommy noticed the patches on their shoulders written in black letters and barely legible in the dark against their camo shirts—Battalion 704.
Seven-O-Four?
It couldn’t be a coincidence.
***
A thousand questions marched through Tommy’s mind as 704—whatever it was—started to look like the rubber band connecting the disparate pieces of shit suddenly raining down on his life.
Summer sped back up the two-lane highway, determined and focused as she wiped her cheeks dry. Without explanation, she passed the turn that led up the mountain to their homes.
“Where are we going?” asked Tommy.
“The bike path.”
“Why?”
“It’s paved all the way down along the river.”
“And?”
The tires squealed as Summer took a right turn faster than was safe. The Jeep bounced over a speed bump, and raced through a condo complex’s parking lot. “We can access the trail right up here.”
Sure they could. Tommy knew the trail well. He’d ridden it hundreds of times. Still, they were in a vehicle, not on bikes. “Watch out.”
The Jeep jarred Tommy’s bones again as Summer plowed over a curb without slowing down. They passed through a gap between a few two-story buildings, running over
shrubs and tearing up the grass as Summer cut the wheels hard to the right. The paved path ribboned out through a stand of tall pines.
It looked way too narrow.
Tommy braced himself.
“Do you know Felix Costa?”
Tommy shrugged, not letting go his grip. “Should I?”
Summer centered the Jeep on the path as Tommy peered out his window to see if the tires were on the pavement.
“The county hires him to clear the path through the winter,” said Summer. “He mounts the plow on his Jeep.”
Logic filled in the rest. If Felix’s Jeep could drive the path, then Summer’s could. The legalities of it didn’t trouble Tommy. His only concern was whether they’d come across another checkpoint. “You’re pretty involved with the city and stuff, right?”
“You know I am. Volunteer committees. Things like that.”
“You know people?”
“I’ve lived here most of my life, Tommy. What are you getting at?”
“What’s Seven-O-Four?”
“What do you mean, Seven-O-Four? What’s that? An area code or something?” Summer slowed the Jeep to navigate a hairpin curve.
“Those guys with the deputy at the roadblock. Who were they?”
“I don’t know. Other deputies?”
Tommy shook his head. “They weren’t police. Does the Summit County Sheriff have an auxiliary unit or something?”
Shaking her head, Summer asked, “They weren’t National Guard?”
“Their uniforms weren’t right.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t know. They just didn’t look right to me. I mean, you see the news, right? National Guard troops are on TV every night putting down riots somewhere.”
“Okay.” Summer‘s curiosity was piqued. “They didn’t look right. What are you getting at?”
“Those guys had patches on their arms that said ‘Battalion 704’.”
“I didn’t notice those. Are you asking me if I know what that is?”
“Yes,” said Tommy. “Do you?”
Summer honked at a group of people walking on the path.
One flipped her off, but none moved.