by Sean Platt
She was out of the car in seconds, her eyes wide and scared, “What’s wrong?” she asked, running up to the porch.
“Nothing, ma’am,” Sanders said. “There was just a little . . . incident.”
“What kind of incident?” she said, looking at Alex and then back at Sanders.
“One of the fathers, um . . . one of the fathers who lost his son in the shooting. He came to your house. He was pretty upset. And he had a baseball bat.”
“A bat?!” Her voice rose five octaves and she turned to Alex, touching his shoulders. “Oh my God, are you okay?”
Alex nodded, hugging his mother. “Yeah, mom, everything’s okay. Officer Sanders arrested Mr. Henderson before he could do anything.”
His mom turned toward the SUV still in the driveway, glaring. He’d rarely seen his mom get angry, and this was the most furious he’d ever seen her. He was certain she was seconds from running to the SUV, pulling Mr. Henderson out, then pounding on him, even though she was a small woman who’d never hurt a fly.
“Everything’s okay, Mom,” Alex said, putting a hand on her shoulder and meeting her eyes. “He’s just upset about Teddy. I can tell he was just confused and angry. He said he’s sorry.”
Alex wasn’t sure why he felt a need to downplay the incident and protect Mr. Henderson, who’d just tried to kill him. But there was something in the man’s eyes, sadness, or something along with the confusion in the moments between his bursts of anger. And that something called to Alex, asking him to show compassion.
Alex’s mom wasn’t feeling compassionate, however.
“I want him in jail. I don’t want him anywhere near my family!”
“We’re going to take him to the police station now,” Sanders said. “They’ll have to decide what to do with Mr. Henderson, and will probably ask if you want to press charges.”
“Damned right I do,” she spit.
Alex put his arm on her, trying to calm her. He felt embarrassed that his mom was overreacting so much, especially given what happened. People had a right to be angry. She couldn’t get too worked up.
“Okay, ma’am. We’ll have someone get in touch with you. Might I make a suggestion?”
“What’s that?” she said, her voice slightly calmer, but suspicious of what he might suggest.
“Would you mind if we posted someone outside your house to keep watch? You know, just until things calm down a bit?”
She stared at him, then turned to Alex, her eyes growing more concerned.
“Do you think that’s necessary?” she asked.
“I don’t know, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. Your son is lucky I happened to be in the neighborhood when I was, and got here before Mr. Henderson could really hurt him.”
“What do you mean really hurt him? Did he hit you, Alex?”
“Just a little, on the back,” Alex said, not wanting to whine about the throbbing pain.
“Let me see,” she said, pulling his shirt up, embarrassing him further. “Oh my God! Your whole back is bruised!”
“It’s not that bad, I swear. I’ve been hit harder in soccer. This’ll be gone in a couple of days.”
“Yes,” his mom said. “I want someone here to watch over us.”
Alex closed his eyes and sighed. The last thing he wanted was for people to see that they — the family of the man who shot their sons and daughters — had security stationed at their house. It would be seen as a big “fuck you” to the victims’ families.
“Yes, ma’am. We’ll send a truck by in 20 minutes to keep an eye out for you all.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I don’t know what we would’ve done if you hadn’t been here. We’re so lucky you happened to be in the neighborhood.”
“Right time, right place,” Sanders said. He handed her a card, wished them well, then headed toward the SUV.
As the SUV rolled away, Alex found his mind turning over the phrase Sanders had said.
“Right time. Right place.”
That’s when Alex realized that he hadn’t seen Sanders arrive in a car. Had he just happened to be walking by on foot at the exact moment that Mr. Henderson decided to go apeshit? Something wasn’t right.
Aubrey started crying, pulling Alex and his mother into the house, as he continued to consider the odd coincidence of Sanders saving the day.
* * * *
CHAPTER 3 — Jon Conway Part 1
Seattle, Washington
Tuesday
September 5
7:20 p.m.
Jon Conway stared out the window counting the minutes before the 747 descended into Sea-Tac, feeling the usual butterflies flittering through his stomach, just like they always did whenever he had to deal with his family in person. Although he was lost in thought, he felt eyes on him.
He turned to his left and saw that the teenage Goth girl, across the aisle in the window seat, was no longer hiding the fact that she’d recognized him despite the shades, black baseball cap, and bulky black coat he’d tried to hide in.
“Are you . . . Jon Conway?” she asked, as the man beside her, likely her father, seemed embarrassed.
“I’m sorry,” the man said.
“It’s okay,” Jon said. “And yeah, it’s me.”
“Oh my God! I told you, Dad,” the girl said. “I’m such a fan! I love all your movies. Even the ones the critics shit all over.”
The man shook his head, “Amber!”
“Sorry, Dad,” she said to her father. “Can I get a picture?”
Jon tried not to let his annoyance show. He hadn’t done a movie in four years, but that only seemed to intensify fan reactions when he ran into them in public. He was especially popular with young girls, and even their moms, for his portrayal of the moody vampire in the ‘Darkness Everlasting’ series, the flicks which launched him from critical darling to box-office juggernaut, even though he found the two sequels creatively bankrupt.
“Sure,” he said, posing with the girl as her dad fumbled with her iPhone to snap a pic.
He put his arm around her, resting it on her shoulder, and she melted into a series of giggles which belied her “I don’t give a fuck” look of disaffected teen.
After her dad snapped a couple of pics, the girl reached up and hugged Jon, as he awkwardly exchanged glances with the girl’s dad. Jon imagined the dad was thinking one of two things: talentless douchebag, or get your hands off my daughter, you pervert. Probably both, and particularly the latter, given Jon’s reputation as someone who slept with half of Hollywood’s A-List.
After the girl thanked Jon and headed back to her seat, her dad surprised him.
“Can I get a picture, too?”
Jon was caught off guard, enough to accidentally laugh.
“I loved your work in ‘This Ends Now,’” the man said.
‘This Ends Now’ was an indie movie Jon wrote, directed, and starred in; a scathing satire of the consumerism culture. While some critics loved it, others dismissed it as another pampered star, from a billionaire family no less, whining and biting the hand that feeds him. The movie also tanked at the box office, causing some to wonder if Jon’s days as an A-Lister were over. Jon was so disgusted by the bullshit following the movie that he’d turned down every script he’d gotten since.
“I loved that movie, too,” the girl said as she took their photo. And then after a long pause, she added, “Are you going to do another ‘Darkness Everlasting?’”
The author of the series had originally planned the series as a trilogy. But apparently, she’d been unable to turn down a huge advance to bring the characters back for another book. Jon hadn’t read the fourth book, but had heard it was little more than a blatant money grab and he had no interest in making another shit film.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe with the right script and director. You never know.”
A bell dinged and one of the flight attendants made the announcement asking everyone to take their seats, and return their trays and seats to thei
r upright positions.
“Thank you,” the girl’s dad said, reaching out to shake Jon’s hand.
The girl thanked him as well.
“You’re welcome,” Jon said as he shook the man’s hand and then returned to his seat, “Take care.”
Jon strapped in, and tried to avoid looking back over in their direction, and getting trapped in a conversation, or worse, having a conversation extend beyond the airplane. He’d have to pretend he got a call or something to break away, and hope he didn’t look like a giant prick. Even after all these years, meeting fans still made him apprehensive, so he tried to avoid it whenever possible.
As the plane landed, Jon thought again about his family, and felt that old familiar dread creeping through him.
Jon had returned to Hamilton Island as few times as possible in the decade since he left the island for good at 21 – the year he was finally certain he wanted little to do with his father, Warren Conway Sr., and nothing to do with Conway Industries, the biotech company that had nudged their bloodline into the top one percent, and built Hamilton Island into one of Puget Sound’s most ideal getaways and homes. Conway Industries not only had their headquarters and several research laboratories on the island, but they also owned and operated a small hospital which employed many, and contributed reduced or free health care to the service industry workers who lived in the subsidized housing.
On Hamilton Island, the Conways were revered by residents and politicians alike for their generosity. In reality, however, the Conway kingdom was built on hubris and treachery, which Jon wanted nothing to do with.
Jon had squirmed free from nearly every obligation that would have pulled him back to Hamilton Island. But Sarah was dead, an accidental victim in a school shooting, and he never would’ve forgiven himself if he didn’t go to her funeral.
She was, after all, the one that got away.
Well, he got away. She stayed put. But now that she was gone, it felt as if some future he imagined someday having with her, was now dead, too.
**
The plane landed. Jon drove a rented Toyota Avalon to the ferry, then watched the island grow larger against the darkening sky as the ferry inched him closer to Hamilton Island and the countless memories he’d love to forget.
Forty five minutes later, Jon parked his car at the Sands of Time hotel.
Jon walked directly to the counter, dropped his bag at his feet, then glanced at the name on the hotel clerk’s badge and said, “Hi there, Lydia, I believe my assistant reserved the top floor for me? Under the name John Kafka.”
Lydia looked him up and down, as she tried and failed to keep her mouth jaw from dropping lower. She stuttered before finding her voice, then looked Jon in the eye and said, “Of course, Mr. Conway. Er, I mean, Mr. Kafka.”
Jon smiled, then shook his head and softly said, “Thank you.”
Lydia smiled, typing on her keyboard.
“How many keys will you be needing, Mr. Conway?” Then after a moment added, “There are 10 rooms total.”
“Can I get two cards, all keyed to all the rooms?”
“Sure,” she smiled, then giggled, twirling a finger through her long dark hair. “At least I think so. I’ve never done this before.”
After a few minutes, she handed Jon two cards, and smiled. She was cute, likely in her mid-twenties, too cute to be working behind the desk of a hotel on Hamilton Island. But he kept such thoughts to himself. This wasn’t a pleasure trip. And while a night with Lydia could be fun and relaxing, the days after would be problematic and not worth the trouble.
After another minute spent finding out if there were any new restaurants on the Island, Jon was waiting for the elevator to ding, then open to his private floor. He was exhausted, but wasn’t sure if he should get to bed early and wait to see everyone at the memorial in the morning, or catch up with Sarah’s twin sister, Cassidy, first.
Last he’d heard, Cassidy was still working at The Shipwreck, an appropriately enough named bar in the south end of the island. Of course, the last time he’d run into Cassidy, she’d been rude, probably holding a grudge for how things went bad between him and Sarah.
The elevator dinged and Jon decided that he was too exhausted to subject himself to Cassidy’s anger, which would likely even be worse following the death of her sister. Though the twins fought as often as he had with his own family, Cassidy and Sarah actually had something the Conways didn’t — love that bonded them together despite their differences.
Jon crossed the hall, slipped his keycard into the door, dropped his bag by the door, then collapsed onto the king-sized bed, fully clothed. He was sound asleep two minutes later.
* *
Wednesday afternoon
September 6
Jon sat two rows from the rear pew, in the back of Great Endeavor Church, a non-denominational church which was also the island’s biggest, and had that classic New England church architecture that Jon admired, though he’d never been particularly religious. This had also been his church, though only from age eight to 12 or so, during the time his parents enrolled him in Sunday school. Of course, they rarely went to church, themselves, usually having their driver drop him off.
He flashed back decades to the many Sundays he sat next to Sarah, and sometimes Cassidy, trying not to giggle as Pastor Avery preached. They’d never been able to go a whole service without getting a stern look from the pastor.
Jon’s trip down memory lane was cut short when he realized that Pastor Avery was looking at him as he addressed the congregation. Jon wondered what the old man must’ve though of him — the godless heathen given to a life of excess and sin has come home to reap what he’s sewn.
But the pastor wasn’t that kind of man. He was serious, but kind, not someone who’d remind you that you of your sins when tragedy struck. The only person singing in that guilty choir was Jon’s conscience.
This was the fourth service today, with the church holding a private friends and family service for each of the six victims of the school shooting. Later in the evening, the church was holding a mass joint service for the public. There were two dozen people in the church besides himself and Sarah’s sister, mother, and her nine year old daughter. Jon sat in the back, wearing dark shades and a black hat, which he’d used to avoid the press outside. The last thing he wanted was to have the press spinning this story and putting him into it, detracting from the tragedy and the memories of the victims. The memory of Sarah.
His agent, Marty, had already informed him that they were getting calls seeking comment on the tragedy, simply because he’d lived there so may years. The press had also spotted him on the island already, so it was only a matter of time before the circus began. Marty suggested using Paladin Security to keep people away from him, as he’d had to do in a few prior visits, but Jon didn’t like to ask his family, who owned Paladin, for anything. “You might wanna consider. Especially once they find out that you and Sarah have a history,” Marty had suggested. Jon hoped to be off the island before those dots were connected.
Every word from Minister Avery’s mouth was a cold blade in Jon’s stomach.
“Sarah Hughes was funny and warm,” the pastor’s hands were in the air. And though the pastor’s eyes met each person in the room, Jon felt as if they lingered particularly longer on him. “She was easy to talk to — a great listener — and so incredibly easy to like. Sarah loved teaching, cooking for her friends, talking on the phone, and growing her roses.” He smiled, as though remembering their scent. “The Abraham Lincoln was her favorite. Sarah loved foot rubs, the beach, and swimming. And she loved great food, especially Italian — the good stuff from the north — along with midnight snacks.” He patted his tummy. “Mostly ice cream.”
Pastor Avery found Jon’s eyes and held them, Jon was certain he wasn’t imagining. “Sarah loved staring at the stars, pondering our place in God’s universe, and believing that the impossible kept itself just one good idea away. She loved the laughter of children, especi
ally her daughter Emma, and every kid at Hamilton Island K-12.” He raised his hands in the air again, but locked his eyes on Jon. “Sarah Hughes loved everyone in this room.”
The pastor held the moment, then lowered his arms and surrendered his gaze. Jon felt his own tears welling as the pastor began to pace the pulpit. “Sarah would never have called herself an intellectual, but I would have disagreed. She was whip smart, understood things in seconds when they should’ve taken minutes, and minutes if hours. She may not have known everything, but she knew all there was to know about being a good person, a great mom, and leading a wonderful life. Sarah Hughes is gone before her time, and will be forever missed.”
Jon could see tears painting the sides of the faces of Sarah’s family at the front of the church; Cassidy, along with her mother, Vivian, and Sarah’s nine year old daughter, Emma.
Pastor Avery continued. “Sarah pointed her life toward everything that was most important to her, and everyone in this room would have to agree that her aim was true. A mother to Emma and a daughter to Vivian; confidant to her friends and a guiding light to her students; a true blessing to her sister, Cassidy.”
Jon was grateful for an excuse to stare at Cassidy, capitalizing on the opportunity. Though she was Sarah’s identical twin, the years had not been nearly as kind to her. While she didn’t look old, she was starting to look weary and jaded. She was still almost as beautiful as her sister, though, with long chestnut hair, green eyes, and Sarah’s porcelain, flawless skin. Jon felt as if he were looking at Sarah’s ghost, and a chill ran through him.
Emma buried her face in Cassidy’s chest. Cassidy pulled her closer and held her tighter, as if proximity would keep herself from surrendering to tears.
Minister Avery smiled at Cassidy, waited for her to smile back, then continued.
“Sarah will always be remembered by her students as one of the best teachers they ever had, by her friends as truly loyal and wonderfully funny, and by her family as remarkably strong. It has been a joy to know Sarah, from the time she was a tiny child through last Easter as an adult when she sat with her hands folded in the pew, just three rows behind where the three remaining Hughes girls are sitting now.”