Aftermath

by Sandy Goldsworthy

  Chapter 27

  Ben's Story

  “That’ll be eight dollars and thirty-one cents.”

  I dropped a ten-dollar bill on the wooden counter next to a coffee, an energy drink, the Westport Gazette, and a tin of cinnamon-flavored Altoids. The older, gray-haired man at the register stared at me for an instant before picking up the money and counting out my change. Even though I frequented his bait shop and convenience store for decades, he shouldn’t recognize me. After all, I changed my disguise every time I stopped in.

  “Thank you, son,” he said. He touched my hand, as he handed back some coins and a dollar bill. Our eyes met briefly, as files downloaded and I was able to read his past. A surge of happiness came over me, until the distinct ring of an old-fashioned bell distracted my thoughts.

  “Good mornin’, miss,” the man said, looking toward the door as he bagged my items.

  “Good morning,” a familiar voice answered.

  I didn’t need to turn around. I knew she was behind me.

  “Aren’t you here bright and early?” Bianca asked when I picked up the bag with my purchases, grabbed my coffee, and turned to leave.

  “And aren’t you surprisingly where you shouldn’t be?” I retorted under my breath and headed to the door. I knew she followed me. Her mindless thoughts filled the airwaves between us.

  “Benjamin, are you angry?” Bianca questioned.

  I unlocked my Toyota with the remote, threw the bag into the front seat, and turned to face her. I took a sip of the steaming java before answering her. “What do you think, Bianca?”

  The stunned look on her face wasn’t what I expected. After a moment of silence, she gathered her thoughts and said, “I’m sorry. It’s just that I’ve always wanted to work on a case with you. I thought… in my free time, right now… that I could. I could be here, if you need me. If you saw me here, you’d find a spot for me.”

  I shook my head. “Where are you staying?”

  She pointed to a four-story building across the street. Retail shops were on the lower level with patio railings lining the floors above. The condos were new and a bit more upscale than residents on Leonard Street, behind the factory.

  “There isn’t a safe house in that building,” I stated.

  Bianca shrugged. I noticed her glance toward the street where a red Corvette slowed, as if contemplating pulling into the lot where we stood. Instead, the car crept to the corner at a snail’s pace and eventually turned.

  “So you’ve set up home in a non-agency-issued dwelling? What did you do? Take out a lease, like a human?”

  She stared at the ground. The spunky girl that begged to be part of my mission suddenly lost her assertiveness. “Um, yes.”

  I glared at her. As an agent, we had access to resources for whatever we’d need on earth. Anything was available—birth certificates, driver’s licenses, even cash. Lots of cash. “Is this even a sanctioned trip?” I couldn’t help but ask.

  Bianca looked up at me, confidence returning to her eyes. “Yes.”

  “And, they’re aware you’ve chosen to set up your own residence? Not stay at a safe house? Why not? Why aren’t you at the safe house?” I pointed in the direction the Corvette turned. “There’s a three-bedroom ranch a couple blocks up. That’s legit.”

  Bianca shrugged. Again.

  “You’re sure the agency is aware of your presence here in Riverside?”

  She nodded. “Yes. Ben, I’m in-between assignments. I requested time off, here… and it was approved.”

  “When’s your next post?”

  “January.”

  “You intend to stay here ’til then?”

  “I’d like to,” she answered, her tone weak at first. “Yes. I plan to.”

  I took a deep breath. She was right. In between missions, agents were free to take vacation, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. Of course, I’d sure remember to give Jorgenson hell for it.

  “Maybe we could have breakfast?” She smiled and touched my arm. “You know, there’s this cute diner down the street, Priscilla’s. Have you been there?”

  “No. I’m not having breakfast with you. And while you’re here, you’re staying away from me. Got it?” I took a step back, and she removed her hand.

  “Ben, I really want in on this.”

  “Bianca, there is no assignment here. This is my vacation, too. Nothing more.”

  “But you picked—”

  “No. It’s dormant duty, Bianca. There’s no hidden mission. I’ve stopped a heart attack and saved a kid from choking. That’s it. Got it?”

  She looked away, but I knew she understood.

  “Maybe we’ll bump into one another, then,” she answered, defeated.

  “Yeah, maybe,” I said aloud, but I sincerely hoped not.

  She said goodbye and turned to leave. When she approached the crosswalk and I opened my car door, I noticed the Corvette again. The dark-haired driver slowed mid-block and watched Bianca cross the street. As if waiting for her to recognize him, he sat idle at the corner, but Bianca didn’t look back. Once she was inside the building, the Corvette turned the corner, glancing at me as he passed.

  Was he just a curious bystander checking out an attractive woman? Or was there something more? Then the conversation with Drew dawned on me—a blonde with a sports car and a condo in Riverside.

  Could Lucas have met Bianca?

  Chapter 28

  Emma's Story

  Aunt Barb took the next two days off work.

  She said she was entitled to a vacation. Even though she never went into the office, every time her phone beeped she answered it quickly, regardless of where we were. I should have known she was a workaholic. So was Dad.

  We kept busy. So busy, I could barely catch my breath. Somehow, I thought that was intentional. We shopped, we laughed, and we cried. We had lunch at the Inn one day and in Westport the next. We picked up odds and ends at the pharmacy and ordered groceries online for delivery. We rented movies one night and watched TV another. We had ice cream for breakfast and ordered dessert before dinner, but we didn’t talk about Dad, and she never mentioned me going to school. It was an active and tiring couple of days, like a typical weekend at Aunt Barb’s.

  Except that it wasn’t.

  When Aunt Barb suggested we visit the house on Lake Michigan, I agreed. After all, it was the house we would soon live in, the old Victorian she renovated months earlier.

  Aunt Barb was unusually talkative on the drive to Westport. She pointed out landmarks at practically every corner, which was good, I guessed, since it was a different route than Dad used to take. By the time we reached North Avenue, I felt pretty comfortable that I’d find my way back on my own.

  “There’s Westport High School.” Aunt Barb pointed to a contemporary building with a wall of glass and stone. The building was over two blocks long. The student parking lot was full of cars. I forgot it was a school day. As Aunt Barb circled the campus, I noticed the soccer field alongside the football arena. “Not as bad as you thought, huh?”

  “No, not at all,” I answered. Even though Westport was a small town and in the middle of nowhere Wisconsin, the school wasn’t much different from mine back home.

  “So… what do you think about starting school next week?” she asked, turning back onto North Avenue. The topic I wanted to avoid finally surfaced.

  “I, ah—”

  “After the move, of course. Maybe give it a few days to settle in. Start Thursday? Then the first week will be over before you know it.” She glanced at me and smiled.

  She was right. It would be a quick, short week. Then again, her life would return to normal, while I had to start over.

  “It’ll be a piece of cake. You’ll see,” she said before I could respond.

  “Um, yeah.” Piece of cake. My stomach did a flip when I thought about facing hundreds of new students. Being that girl—the pathetic girl that transferred because her parents died.

 
Great.

  “And the best part,” she said, two blocks from the school, “is that it’s close to where we’ll live.” The road curved a sharp right, giving way to a spectacular view of Lake Michigan. An observation deck overlooked the endless water, while a narrow stretch of grass hugged the bluff, a block long. A wooden sign read, North Pointe Park.

  Seconds later, Aunt Barb turned into the first driveway, lakeside. The Victorian-style house was narrow and deep, with a round tower in the front, next to the front door. I was silently relieved it was tastefully painted in beige and cream, and not in some god-awful pink or purple that I would be embarrassed to live in. The driveway was long with an attached garage and a barn-like building at the back of the property. A row of dense trees clung to the bluff, lining the left side of the driveway.

  “Wow. Huge yard,” I said after the car came to a stop.

  “I know. It’ll be perfect for Chester.” He whined at the mention of his name. We turned to look at him in the back of my aunt’s SUV. He barely fit across the seats, but somehow managed to poke his head through the open window.

  “Ready?” she asked after turning off the engine.

  “Yup.”

  A long, skinny porch ran along the side of the house. Aunt Barb walked up the four steps and unlocked the door. Small bushes separated the porch from the driveway, with oversized planters flanking the stairs. Baskets of geraniums and petunias hung between each supporting pillar.

  It was welcoming.

  We walked into an open-concept first floor, with the dining room in front of us, the kitchen to the left, a great room to the right, and a den off the front foyer. Cherry wood cabinets and cream-colored trim filled the house. Aunt Barb proceeded to give me a tour and recount the home’s history, from its original construction for a wealthy town resident’s daughter, to the 1950’s conversion to a multi-unit rental. She pointed out little changes she made, and big ones that emphasized the pride in her work.

  Aunt Barb led me up a mahogany staircase to a loft.

  “What do you think?” she asked as we stood in the open space overlooking the foyer.

  “The house is beautiful, Aunt Barb. And, it’s huge! Much bigger than it looks.”

  “I know. I agree. But what I meant was—what do you think about this space?”

  I shrugged. The area was about the size of a bedroom, with two doors off to the left and a long hallway heading toward the back of the house.

  She explained her idea of setting up a TV and Dad’s leather couch in the loft for me to hang out with friends. She talked with her hands and moved around the room to help me envision her thoughts. I smiled as I remembered her doing the same thing to Dad when he looked at buying that brown leather couch.

  When she was done, I said, “I love it. Thanks, Aunt Barb.” I gave her a hug, but it was temporary. She quickly pulled back, reached for my hand, and continued the tour, ending in a bedroom overlooking the lake.

  “This will be your room,” she said, referring to one of the doors off the loft space. “Right next to mine. Unless you want one of the others,” she added.

  The room was almost double what I had back home, with a walk-in closet and private bathroom, not to mention an incredible view of the never-ending water.

  “It’s perfect,” I answered. The closet could hold three times the amount of clothes I had, and the bathroom was bigger than the one Dad and I shared on Cavell Street.

  “I was thinking we could paint the walls, and maybe put a chaise lounge chair here.” She motioned with her hands again, walking around the room, pointing out where she thought the bed and desk would work.

  This time, when she finished, she let me give her a hug.

  “I just want this to be our home,” she said.

  I nodded and whispered, “Me, too.”

  After we wiped away tears, she suggested I look around while she took some measurements and checked on a few things. I wandered through the rooms upstairs, and then found Chester in the great room on the first floor.

  “Come on, boy. Let’s check out the lake,” I said, opening the side door.

  Hidden behind overgrown bushes and tree branches, a whitewashed railing peeked out. I pushed a low-hanging branch aside and found a staircase to the water. The paint was weathered, though the steps seemed sturdy. As I descended the stairs, the trees thinned and the wind increased. The breeze was much cooler than the temperature I felt in the driveway above. I jogged the last flight of stairs to the flat boulder about the size of my bedroom back home. Two Adirondack chairs faced the water, waiting for visitors. Bits of dirt and bird droppings spotted the chair’s finish. I guessed they hadn’t been used in years. I slipped off my flip-flops and sat down on the boulder.

  The water looked inviting.

  If only I could reach it with my toes. I stretched and re-stretched, scooting my butt closer and closer again, to the edge. The water appeared within reach, but it was no use. Waves rolled in and splashed against the rocks. A mist surrounded me.

  I wondered if it was as deep and cold as it looked. I sat content for a minute. It was peaceful here. Pretty. The extent of the water was endless, reminding me of the ocean and its great vastness. Its music was hypnotizing. I closed my eyes and listened to the rhythmic flow of its beat. I felt the pulsations in my chest. Water crashed again.

  Thump and splash. Thump and splash.

  A chorus rang in my mind. Sprays of cool mist met my skin and comforted me. It beckoned me.

  I had to touch it. I had to try again.

  Balancing my weight on my arms, I lowered my body to the pile of rocks below. The water receded as the tip of my toes reached the jagged edges of the stones. I waited. And waited again. But the water was not cooperating.

  Impatience won as I leaned down further, stretching and lowering. When my foot touched the wetness below, a sharp, prickly sensation shot through me. It felt like needles stabbing my toes.

  The water was shockingly cold.

  But as quick as it came, it went. The water recessed to the vast openness of the infinite Great Lakes pool, and I waited. Lesser waves strolled in and out, leaving me with a longing for the power I felt when the striking chill pierced my skin.

  Wave after wave, yet no force.

  I clung to the boulder that doubled as a lakeshore patio. Only a few inches below, the stones gave way to a sandy bottom. All I could imagine was touching it. I wanted to dig my feet deep into its surface. I wanted to touch it.

  To be part of it.

  A distant voice and the sound of a deep bark distracted me. When I looked up, Chester was sprinting down the stairs. I lifted myself back on the boulder before Aunt Barb reached me.

  “Are you okay?” She was out of breath. “What were you doing out here?”

  “I just wanted to wade in the water.” I could tell she didn’t believe me.

  “Honey, the water is so dangerous.” She pulled me into her arms and repeated how worried she was.

  “I wasn’t trying to hurt myself. Really, I wasn’t.”

  “Oh honey, I didn’t think you were. You just made me nervous, that’s all,” she said. “There are too many stories of people losing their lives in these waters.”

  I sat silent, not sure what to say. Luckily, I didn’t need to.

  “One story right here, actually. Well, it’s a legend. They say a woman died in these waters about a hundred years ago.”

  I looked at her, but I didn’t interrupt.

  “The legend says she was a young woman in love with a sailor. He never returned home, and his ship was never found. It was thought his ship sank during a storm. Years went by and her life was miserable. Since he promised to return for her, she would come here to the water’s edge looking for him, night after night, convinced he would someday return.

  “One day, she simply disappeared. Her sister knew she was slipping out each night to the lake and claimed the sailor came back and took her out to sea. To be with him.”

  “Really?” />
  “Well, it’s just an old legend. I’m not sure how much truth there was in it.”

  I nodded.

  “But they say if you ever see a sparkle in the middle of the lake, it’s her.”

  “Huh. So this shoreline is kind of haunted?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. Or at least, I don’t believe that,” she said, looking off toward the water. After a few minutes of silence, she continued. “I could use a good burger. How ’bout you?”

  “Yeah, that’d be good.”

  Chapter 29

  Ben's Story

  Chester’s frantic bark broke my concentration.

  Coach Vieth had us running drills on the soccer field. Dribble, dribble, pass, pass, shoot. Next pair up. Repeat. Forty-seven minutes left in practice.

  Mentally, I searched the airwaves, listening for Emma. I could pick out her voice a million miles away, even if it was just her thoughts and not a spoken word.

  A second later, I found her on the shores of Lake Michigan, by the Victorian house she’d eventually live in with her aunt. Emma seemed focused on the water, wanting to feel it.

  Damn it!

  What was she doing?

  I finished the run with a teammate and intentionally twisted my ankle. I dropped to the ground and clutched the lower portion of my left leg.

  I grunted as if in pain when the coach and a few players reached me near the goal. Envisioning swelling, I watched as my ankle mimicked my thoughts.

  “Looks bad,” Drew said.

  Coach shook his head. “Better get that checked. Trainer’s inside. We gotta get you back and healthy. We gotta game in a few days.”

  I nodded. “I’m sure I’ll be fine, Coach.” Drew helped me up and let me lean on him as we walked toward the building. After several feet, I lessened the limp-act and told him I could make it on my own. With him out of sight, I jogged to the back of the building and slipped into the nearest portal.

  I had to see if Emma was really all right.

  Chapter 30

  Emma's Story

  Aunt Barb never left my side, or at least not for long.

  After the incident at Lake Michigan, she had contractors add a gate and reinforce the set of stairs, but stopped short of fencing in the boulder patio. “It wouldn’t look right, aesthetically,” she said. “Besides, it’s not like we’ve got toddlers living here that could accidentally fall in.”