Pamela Tracy - Fugitive Family

The radio commentator switched to the weather, as if the shocking discovery of someone’s wife, mother, best friend, and a fifty-percent chance of rain deserved to be mentioned in the same breath. Greg’s grip on his hammer loosened abruptly. The tool dropped to the ground. In all honesty, he’d forgotten that it was in his hand.

“Hey, Greg, you all right?”

Truth. Always stick as close to the truth as possible.

At one time he believed in telling the truth. He’d said it over and over to the authorities, to himself, to God. “I did not kill my wife. I did not rob the bank.”

The truth didn’t seem to make much of a difference then and it wouldn’t work now, so he said, “I’m fine. Thought I heard the word tornado.”

Greg picked up the hammer. Right now his heart was doing all the pounding he could handle. Funny, even after all these months, six to be exact, he’d still held out hope that Rachel was alive.

Never mind the blood. Never mind the words of his friends and neighbors. Personal opinion mattered little when compared to a video.

Vince Frenci, owner of the radio, shook his head and drawled, “Tornados knock things down—we build them back up. That’s life. It’s also job security.”

But Greg knew life wasn’t that easy. And security was fragile at best.

“I’m fine,” Greg repeated, slipping the hammer into his belt and heading for his toolbox. Greg’s coworkers called him a man of few words. Personal stuff didn’t get bantered. He didn’t socialize after work, and the few times wives had suggested “Hey, let’s fix Greg up with…” he’d begged off.

They knew he had a daughter. They knew he’d moved to Nebraska a few months ago.

Gazing past the other five construction workers, their tools, their questioning looks, Greg focused first on the elementary school parking lot and then onto G Street. It would take him all of ten minutes to get to the truck and pick up Amber from the babysitter. What he had to decide was how to quit work without arousing suspicion, followed by an even tougher decision: whether it was time to disappear or time to take a stand. Or maybe he was right where he needed to be.

As if demanding a decision now, the vacuum that seemed to envelope him after hearing the news story suddenly ceased and the noise and hustle of “real” time returned.

“Yeah, everything’s all right,” Vince Frenci yelled to the owner of Konrad Construction, who no doubt had noticed Greg’s momentary halt. “Greg just zoned out for a moment. I think he’s checking out Mrs. Henry, the third-grade teacher. Hey, I was in her class twenty years ago. I still wake up crying.”

“Maybe I’m not all right,” Greg said, loud enough for Vince to hear. “I feel funny—maybe I’m dizzy. Maybe the sun’s getting to me.”

“Oh, dizzy?” Vince said. “Oh, la, la. Then, it’s not Mrs. Henry. It must be that new first-grade teacher. She certainly made you light-headed yesterday. She makes me dizzy every time she gets outta her car. Better run down there, Greg, before she gets away.”

Greg shook his head. They’d gone from teasing him about the seventyish gray-haired grandmother teacher to razzing him about the twentyish red-haired first-grade teacher. His daughter, Amber, would be in her class. Of course he was interested in her. All he’d done so far was introduce himself.

And, of course, his coworkers had noticed.

Yesterday, he’d almost enjoyed the attention. It made him feel almost normal. Now he was terrified. Normal wasn’t allowed. Not until whoever had ruined his life was caught and behind bars. Today, he couldn’t listen to his coworkers joke as if it were just another day, as if it were a world where everything and everyone looked and did just what they should. His world was no longer like theirs. They believed that when they left work for the day, they’d always have a home to go home to, a good woman waiting, security.

He’d believed that once, too.

The body of Rachel Cooke was discovered earlier today…

The site foreman squinted at Greg and hollered. “You’re dizzy? Well, sit down before you fall down. We’ve got forty days without accident. I want forty more.”

“I’m dizzy, too,” Vince called.

“Yeah, but you were born that way,” the foreman snapped.

Greg wavered. He checked out his coworkers. With the exception of Vince, they were all back to work. Sweat poured down their faces as it poured down his. Dirt edged around their collars, soaked into their knees and elbows, and found its way under their fingernails. This corner of the parking lot had caved in during recent rainstorms. Their job was to repair it before the first day of school.

None of them looked like they were thinking about the words on the radio.

It was all Greg could think about.

“You want someone to drive you home?” the foreman offered.

“I’ll do it!” Vince volunteered.

Greg wasn’t surprised. Vince probably knew more about construction than the rest of the crew combined. He certainly knew more than Greg, yet the man never missed an opportunity to find something else to do. He was the advice giver, the joke teller, the “just a minute” excuse maker. But when all was said and done, and know-how was needed, Vince was the man.

Greg packed his tools up and headed for his truck. “I can drive. It’s just a headache and some dizziness.”

“All right,” the foreman said. “But call if something happens.”

The mad urge to laugh caused Greg to duck his head as he climbed behind the wheel. His boss’s words echoed: Call if something happens. Something had already happened and every day it happened again and again in his thoughts, his memories, his dreams.

He needed to get home, turn on the television, log on to the Internet and call Burt Kelley. No, first he needed to get to his daughter, make sure she was safe, find out what she’d already heard.

Still, because it was expected, he promised, “I’ll call if anything happens.”

The foreman nodded, and Greg started his truck before his boss could say anything else.

Six months ago, a trip to the restroom had changed Greg’s life forever. And no one on the construction crew knew how much. They couldn’t know that just five minutes earlier Greg Bond, whose real name was Alexander Cooke, heard a truth he’d been both expecting and dreading for six months.

His wife was dead.

The authorities believed he’d killed her.

Some unknown entity had wiped out Greg’s world and kept coming back for more.

Greg checked out the school’s parking lot and put his foot on the gas.

It wasn’t until he plowed into the passenger side of the first-grade teacher’s car that he realized he hadn’t been looking for traffic; he’d been looking for cops.

“Have I got the perfect guy for you!”

Those words, spoken barely an hour ago by one of her fellow teachers, didn’t bode so well now. The perfect guy had just put a major dent in Lisa Jacoby’s light blue Chevy Cavalier.

“I can’t believe you hit me. Didn’t you hear me honk?” Lisa shook her head as she surveyed the damage. The front bumper was twisted and bit into the passenger-side tire. The fender had crumpled like cardboard. “The cops won’t even come,” she said, mournfully. “This is a private parking lot.”

He looked at the street, first right, then left, and muttered, “I’m so sorry.”

She’d been in fender benders before, and usually the people involved looked at each other or looked at the cars. Not Greg Bond—he seemed more concerned with the scenery.

“We need to call our insurance companies,” she suggested.

It took him a moment, but he brought his attention back to her and this time he was the one to shake his head. “That’s not going to work. I don’t have car insurance.”