Without a word, the rest of them started back to the SUV. Griffin opened the back door, glanced once more over his shoulder, then stepped up inside. Moments later Winslow had the engine going and was moving them forward again.
Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. The silence was lonely, but necessary. Confronting inner demons couldn’t be accomplished in the midst of conversation, only postponed. And they might not get another chance. Griffin used the chance to remember a moment, seven years previous. He’d returned from a rare date with Jess. Snuck in the front door and found Rule asleep on the couch, Avalon laid out over her, snoring. God, I’m going to miss that woman, he thought, wiping away a tear.
He was totally lost in his memory when the first bullet shattered the front left headlight.
“What was that?” Dodge asked.
The windshield was hit next. Dead center, near the top, a sudden pock splintering the glass.
“We’re under attack!” Griffin shouted, ducking low, drawing his gun and searching for targets.
Winslow slammed on the brakes. He jammed the SUV into reverse, punched the gas, and sent them careening back down the long drive. Frost had her gun out, trying to spot whoever was shooting at them through the windshield, while Dodge said a prayer.
Winslow looked back over his shoulder as they raced back toward the intersection. The gunfire had stopped, and Griffin turned back to ask if everyone was okay. They reached the intersection and before he could speak, something slammed into them from the side, sending the world into an uncontrolled spin.
9
Avalon stood in the Herman home’s parlor, staring at the shelves of Russian nesting dolls. There were over a dozen sets, lined up from the tallest to the shortest, each doll facing outward.
“Creepy, aren’t they?”
Avalon blinked, startled. She glanced over her shoulder and watched Mrs. Winslow—‘Carol,’ she wanted Avalon to call her—enter the parlor, a broad smile on her face.
“No,” Avalon said. “They’re not creepy at all. They’re just…interesting.”
Carol laughed. “No, they’re creepy. But they’re also beautiful in their own special way.”
“How did you start collecting them?”
“Winslow and I traveled around Europe maybe ten years ago, back when we were younger and had more energy. One of the places we visited was Sergiev Posad, an old Russian town not too far from Moscow. It was there that the first Matryoshka was made.”
“‘Matryoshka?’”
Carol smiled and shrugged. “Just another name for the nesting doll. It means ‘little matron.’”
“So what’s the appeal?”
Carol stared at the dolls for a long moment, as if lost in thought. Finally she said, “Honestly? Winslow bought me a set while we were on our trip. They’re the ones on the top, the ones that look like peasants. I thought they were the ugliest things I’d ever seen, but of course I didn’t tell him that. I said they were beautiful. And when we came back home, I made the mistake of placing them on the mantle—a place of honor in Winslow’s childhood home. He assumed I wanted even more, so every year since, he has given me a set for Christmas. Each, he said, were handmade and one of a kind. Like I told you, they’re creepy. And, well, I didn’t have the heart to tell Winslow just how much I disliked them. But now...despite their ugliness, they are a very tangible representation of his dedication to me. I cherish them.”
Is that love? Avalon wondered. She supposed it was. She had never been in love before—not true love—though she had been infatuated from time to time. She was typically drawn to the dangerous boys, the kind that she knew her father would never approve of. Hell, one of them had even gotten her hooked on Oxy, and look how that had turned out. At the time, she might have thought she was in love, but even then she had known better. Or at least she liked to think she had known better.
With neither one saying a word, the two women drifted out of the parlor and headed into the living room, where Monty sat with his daughters, watching the large, widescreen TV. It was a Pixar movie, Avalon knew that for a fact, though she couldn’t place the title off the top of her head. She was sure the girls had seen it countless times, but that wasn’t the point. They just needed to get their minds off what was happening to the town. And, of course, what had happened to their mother. Even still, the girls watched with a listlessness that made Avalon cringe. It was like they knew they were supposed to smile and laugh and enjoy themselves, but they couldn’t bring themselves to let it happen.
“Would either of you girls like a snack?” Carol asked.
Both girls looked at Carol, then at their father for permission. Monty nodded his head at them, and they turned and spoke simultaneously.
“Yes, please.”
“I’ll see what I can find.” She glanced at Avalon. “Care to help me?”
When they reached the kitchen, Avalon realized someone was missing.
“Where are Radar and Lisa?”
Carol opened the fridge. “They went to look at the observatory.”
“I’m not sure it’s a good idea to leave those two alone.”
Carol pulled a bag of apples from the crisper tray. “Young love is such a precious thing, isn’t it?”
She withdrew a knife from the wooden block on the counter and used it to point at the cabinet behind Avalon.
“Could you get the jar of peanut butter out of there, dear?”
Avalon opened the cabinet. A jar of Jif was the first thing to stare back at her, just like the nesting dolls had. She put it on the counter, as Carol started slicing the apples.
Carol’s steady chop stopped suddenly. “I wonder if any of them are allergic to peanut butter. Children are often allergic to peanut butter, aren’t they?” She started slicing again.
Avalon shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe. Mrs. Herman—”
“Carol.”
“Right. Carol. I was wondering something.”
“Yes?”
“Why didn’t you and Mr. Herman ever have kids?”
The old woman was slicing the apple but stopped, staring down at the counter.
“I’m sorry,” Avalon said quickly. “It’s none of my business.”
“No, it’s a fair question. The truth is, Winslow and I would have loved children. My mother used to tell me I was born to give birth, on account of these wide hips. But sometimes we can’t have what we want.”
Avalon grinned. “You mean like Russian nesting dolls?”
Carol allowed a small smile. “Something like that.”
She went back to slicing the apple, and Avalon looked out the window. She could see the observatory across the lawn. She knew Radar was a good kid, just like Lisa was a good kid, but they were teenagers, and Avalon knew teenagers oftentimes got themselves into trouble. They’d been caught in the church, after all.
“Use the intercom,” Carol said.
“What?”
“There.” Carol pointed with the knife at a black box on the wall. “After Winslow built the observatory, he spent so much time there, I made him install an intercom so I could badger him without freezing my toes off during the winter. Ask them if they’d like a snack, if you’re worried about them.”
Avalon considered it for a moment, then shook her head. “No, I’m sure they’re fine. Can I ask you something else?”
Carol set the slices on a plate and began on the second apple. “Certainly.”
“How can you be so…positive? I mean, after everything that’s been happening, you keep this smile on your face.”
Carol paused again, staring down at the apple. She looked up at Avalon, and the permanent smile had vanished.
“The smile isn’t for me. It’s for my husband. It’s for those children. You think I’m not scared? I’m terrified. Now here, help me with these snacks. If you and I have one purpose right now, it’s to help those girls forget their mother is dead.”
“I’m worried about my father.”
“I know, dear. But I’m sure he’s o
kay.” Her smile appeared again. “Everyone in town knows nothing can stop Griffin Butler.”
Avalon smiled, and forced the grin to stay on her lips. For the girls. But while she appreciated Mrs. Herman’s encouraging words, there was a flaw to her logic. There was one thing her father had shown himself incapable of conquering.
Death.
10
Frost gingerly touched the side of her head, looked at her fingers and saw blood. The spot was sore from where it had cracked against the window.
Winslow was hunched over the steering wheel, coughing.
She gently touched his shoulder. “Are you okay?”
He winced, sitting up. “I think so. You?”
“A little bump on my head, but I should be fine.”
She turned around in her seat to check on Griffin and Dodge. Both looked shaken up, but otherwise alright.
Griffin squinted out the window at the pickup truck that had hit them. “Is that Charley Wilson?”
Frost opened her door. “Only one way to find out.”
She placed her foot on the ground and immediately had the sense the world was tilting. Was this another shift? No, she thought, it’s just me. She suspected she had a minor concussion.
She placed her hand against the side of the SUV, steadying herself. Taking a deep breath, she focused on the ground for a beat, then marched straight for the black Ford pickup.
The right front-end was smashed up a bit, but otherwise the truck looked decent. The airbag had deployed, and Charley was pushing it away when she flung open the door.
“What the hell did you think you were doing?” Frost asked.
“Me?” He was dazed, blood on his face from where the airbag had punched him. “You guys came out of nowhere.”
“What are you doing down here?” Frost asked. She knew he had a point, but she couldn’t think of a single good reason for anyone in town to be driving around on their own.
Something changed in his eyes. Frost couldn’t tell what it was at first. It was like he was trying to decide something important but didn’t want Frost to know. Not only that, he reeked of booze. The whole truck did.
She made a show of sniffing the truck. “Seriously? After we let you out? How much did you have to drink?”
“Aw, come on, Deputy—”
“It’s ‘Sheriff.’”
Charley looked confused for a moment, but he was no longer looking at her, he was looking past her. She turned and found Griffin taking up a defensive position behind a tree, aiming his handgun back down the long drive.
“Ignore him and answer the question,” Frost said.
“Okay. Sheriff. I only had a few. Not that many. But even if I was stone cold sober, it wouldn’t have changed a goddamn thing. You guys shot out of there like a cannonball.”
By that point, Winslow and Dodge had climbed out of the SUV and joined her around the pickup truck. Both of them were carrying weapons. Griffin fell back and joined them, his eyes still on the road out to the depot.
Charley’s eyes grew big as he noticed they were all armed. “Whoa now. What are you going to do with those? It was just an accident!”
“Someone was just shooting at us,” Griffin said.
“Shooting at you?”
“On the way up to the depot,” Griffin said, and then eyed Charley. “What are you doing here anyway?”
“Question of the day,” Charley said and then shrugged. “I came to help.”
Frost looked skeptical. “Help who?”
“You guys. I heard you were headed to the depot to find weapons and supplies or whatever. I came to help.”
“From the smell of it,” Griffin said, “you probably should have just stayed at the bar.”
Charley’s face tightened. “Look, I’ve been a fuck-up in the past. I know that. But the shit’s hit the big fucking fan, and I want to pull my weight. So, I’m here to help. And if you have a problem with that, you can just go fuck yourself, thank you very much.”
“Okay, that’s enough.” Frost stood with her hands on her hips, thinking things through. “The real question we need answered is why someone was shooting at us. Actually, no, the question is who was shooting at us? I thought the depot was supposed to be empty?”
“That’s what Julie told me,” Griffin said. “But how could she know for certain?”
“Maybe they’re squatters?” Winslow offered.
“On military property?” Griffin replied.
Winslow rubbed his head. “Well, whoever it was, it seems they don’t want visitors.”
“Maybe not,” Dodge said.
They all looked at him, waited for him to go on, and when he didn’t, Frost asked, “What do you mean?”
Dodged cleared his throat. “Maybe…whoever shot at us was actually trying to get our attention.”
“Well,” Winslow gestured at his vehicle, “they certainly got my attention.”
“You mean they were trying to warn us off?” Griffin asked.
Dodge nodded. “Maybe something’s happened up there. Something bad. It looked like part of the fence had been destroyed.”
They were quiet for a moment, thinking about it, the Ford’s engine ticking quietly.
Charley was still behind the steering wheel, sniffing back blood. “So what do we do now?”
“It depends,” Griffin said. He looked at the pickup’s front end. “Does this thing still run?”
11
This wasn’t a good idea. Charley knew it wasn’t. This whole thing, the more he thought about it, was completely fucked. But what was he supposed to do? Tell them about the men at the depot? That would raise even more questions, the first being how exactly would Charley know about the men at all? So, no, he wasn’t going to say anything. He might not be completely sober, but he was lucid enough to keep his mouth shut. He could even picture Julie pointing a finger in his face, telling him to keep his stupid mouth shut. So yeah, he could do that, no problem there. But this? This was insane.
“Buckle up.”
Griffin now sat behind the steering wheel, Charley in the passenger seat. Griffin gripped the wheel, getting adjusted to what it felt like with the airbag deployed.
Charley was in a daze. Thinking about his options. Knowing he didn’t have many. Tell the truth and cause trouble. Not tell the truth and let trouble happen. In the end it all came down to which trouble was worse.
Griffin snapped a finger in Charley’s face. “Hey, did you hear me?”
Charley blinked. Griffin was giving him a worried look. Swallowing, he nodded and quickly buckled his seatbelt.
Just tell the truth, a part of his mind said, the part he suspected was always sober. Just tell the truth and worry about the consequences later. Because this right here—this madness—is going to get you killed.
Maybe so. But what would Griffin and Frost and the others do if they learned the truth? Would they go so far as to kill him? No, Charley knew it would never go that far, but still he decided it was best to let things play out, see what happened next. Because the only way to improve his situation was to stay quiet, even if that meant risking his life.
Griffin turned the key in the ignition. The truck rumbled to life. Griffin glanced back through the rear window, gave a thumbs-up and then threw the truck in gear.
“Hold on.”
Charley closed his eyes. He didn’t want to see it happen. He didn’t want to see the bullets tearing through the windshield. He had no doubt that the men at the depot would open fire on them. They had before. Why not again? Even Griffin knew it, and that’s why he was taking the lead. The pickup out front, the SUV trailing, all with the simple hope that this kooky plan was somehow going to work.
So Charley kept his eyes closed, while Griffin took his foot off the brake and punched the gas. And he kept them closed while the pickup started up the drive, gaining speed. Even when Griffin started swerving the truck back and forth, his eyes remained squeezed together like a Venus fly trap with a cramp.
And w
hen the first round hit the truck, he closed his eyes even tighter.
The bullet pinged off the Ford’s hood, much like a loose rock would. Charley wasn’t even sure it was a bullet, except that Griffin cursed under his breath and swerved even more, gunning the engine, the truck nearly screaming as they accelerated.
Charley finally opened his eyes when Griffin said, “Brace yourself,” and he saw the fence rushing toward them, the truck now going nearly fifty miles per hour. He noticed the bullet hole in the pickup’s hood a moment before the truck crashed through the gate.
The first building was maybe fifty feet away. Griffin was already coming at it too fast and had to slam on the brakes. The tires locked and the back of the pickup fishtailed as they swerved right toward the building. But Griffin, a competent driver, managed to regain control and brought the truck to a stop just feet from the long building’s metal side.
Griffin cut the engine, tore off his seatbelt, and opened his door. He had his gun out and was stepping out of the truck, as Charley heard the SUV’s tires screeching behind them.
“Come on,” Griffin shouted, “let’s move!”
Charley fumbled with his seatbelt. He got it off, yanked the door handle and pushed into it. But the door remained shut, and Charley smacked his head against the glass. “Fuck!” He’d somehow locked it during the drive. He pulled the lock, tried the door again and hopped out of the truck onto steady feet, the effects of his alcohol negated by a rush of adrenaline. By the time Charley rounded the back, the others were out of the SUV, weapons drawn. Even the pastor. Charley felt uncommonly vulnerable, being the only one without a gun.
The ground trembled, the cause unseen.
“Did you see where the shooting came from?” Griffin asked the others, his voice quiet.
Before any of them could answer him, the ground trembled again, this time with more force.
“Is this another shift?” Dodge asked, near panic.
“Don’t move!”
They all turned in the direction of the voice.
A big man dressed in black fatigues stalked toward them, despite an obvious limp. He held a rifle, but he wasn’t aiming it at them.
Refuge Book 3 - Lost in the Echo Page 5