Pamela Tracy - Fugitive Family

It wasn’t. The morning news simply highlighted a maggot head who six months ago had made it his business to look like Greg, like how Greg looked when he could go throughout his day as Alexander Cooke. Luckily, it was easier to change the channel than it had been for him to change their lives.

Greg took another drink of lukewarm coffee as he left his office and headed to the living room to settle down next to his daughter. He was amazed at the curve life had tossed him. Still, he knew how to play ball. It was what the curve had done to Amber that really got to him. She’d just started sleeping through the night, making friends and letting go of his hand.

Nonchalantly, he changed the channel on the television, moved closer to Amber and took her in his lap. His little girl had a best friend, two if he counted little Mikey Maxwell. She was sleeping through the night. She was actually looking forward to school starting. She was recovering, somewhat.

He wasn’t.

Together they watched an early-morning kids program. When it ended, Greg said gently, “Honey, remember, the man you saw on the news in the maggot mask is not me.”

Amber slowly nodded. “I know. It’s a man pretending to be you.” She scooted into his arms and he felt the warmth of her body, the beating of her heart. Six years old was too young to deal with everything she had to deal with. Unfortunately, six years old was also old enough to do things on her own. Like turn on the television when he’d specifically told her not to. Still, he didn’t have it in his heart to punish her.

“Daddy will take care of this,” he promised. “The only thing you have to do is not tell anybody our real names or about our old life. Not until Daddy figures out what’s happening.”

She nodded, or at least, he felt her head go up and down.

Six months ago his daughter had been full of energy, her cheeks were rosy, her smiles contagious. If she turned pale, serious, or vulnerable, her mommy was right there to lay a gentle hand on Amber’s forehead, to tickle the seriousness away or to scoop her up and shelter her.

Six months ago he’d been the assistant manager at a bank in Wellington, Kansas. Then, at least according to the police and everyone who listened to and believed the five o’clock news, he’d not only robbed his own bank, but he’d also shot and killed the security guard. Then, apparently, by accident, his mask had come off, and he’d looked right at the security camera.

Right.

The news commentators had a field day with the irony of a bank manager who had to know where the camera was, looking right at the lens.

The Dr. Phils of the world had had a field day with the kind of criminal mind that aimed a full smile at the security camera.

Right.

He’d been stuck in the restroom during the whole robbery. He hadn’t even known what was going on until he’d somehow managed to push open the door.

No one believed him.

“Today we’re staying home,” he told Amber. “Daddy has to keep track of the news.”

“Will we move again?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Will I have to go to another school?”

“Not sure about that, either.”

“I don’t like moving.”

“I don’t like moving, either.”

Unfortunately, moving was on a long list of don’t likes. He didn’t like living on the run, he didn’t like construction work and he didn’t like that whenever he called, he got Burt Kelley’s answering machine. With all that was going on, you’d think the only person on his side would make himself available.

He needed to try Burt again. He needed to find out what was happening behind the scenes. Needed to find out what had really happened to his wife.

Needed to find out if she’d been dead for six months, as the bloodstains on the living room carpet of their Wellington home implied. Or if she’d died more recently, which meant that while the authorities spun their wheels blaming him, they could have spent their time finding Rachel and maybe saving her.

She looked for Greg on Thursday, but he’d called in sick. No surprise. He, or maybe it had been the Vince guy, had mentioned a dizzy spell.

It was Vince whom Lisa saw first. Watching him meander through the elementary school hallway was enlightening. He bumped into Mrs. Henry by the cafeteria and ducked his head like a bashful schoolboy. Then he made a brief foray into the library, before finally heading for Lisa’s classroom to hand her his brother’s business card.

Just before noon, and her first break from a too long meeting, he’d come in with a status report. He settled himself in a first-grade desk—not an easy task—and folded his hands like a good boy. She doubted that he realized just how dirty his hands were. His brother, he reported, didn’t have the right fender but could find one in a few days. His brother did, however, stock the right make and shade of paint.

The tire had already been replaced.

Oh, and she was looking at just over $2,000 in damages.

The third time Vince showed up in her classroom, he’d offered her a ride home.

Luckily, Gillian—who’d already promised Lisa a ride home—arrived in the classroom a moment later, sat down at the small desk next to Vince and promptly began a three-way conversation that Lisa never would have instigated. She started with, “Does Greg Bond ever date?”

Vince grinned, his eyes crinkled, and with a cocky expression that said he wasn’t surprised by the question, replied, “Gillian, you’re still as nosey as you were when we were both in first grade. I think you sat in the front row back then, too.”

“And you,” Gillian said, “are still just as annoying and belong in the back row. Now, does Greg Bond ever date?”

“Not that I know of. He doesn’t even talk about chicks—” He stuck his tongue out at Gillian and then looked at Lisa with what had to be a pretend-sheepish expression. “I mean women.”

“He still wears his wedding ring,” Gillian pointed out.

“We’ve told him to take it off,” Vince sobered. “It’s dangerous on the job. I’ve heard of men losing fingers because of wedding rings.”

“He never talks about his wife.”

Vince nodded. “She had to have been young. All he says is that she died in an accident.”

Lisa thought back to Amber’s school records. The only thing she’d seen relating to Amber’s mother was the word deceased.

“He goes to my church,” Gillian said. “Amber’s in my Sunday morning Bible school class. She never misses a class. They attend both services—on Sunday and Wednesday night. He’s never asked for prayers, never engaged in small talk. He plays on the church’s softball team, but I think the preacher strong-armed him. I think he’s sad.”

“I think he’s sad that he hit Lisa’s car,” Vince agreed.

Lisa thought back to the man who’d just last night insisted on getting his daughter before going home, who so solemnly watched as they buckled up their seat belts, and who gripped the steering wheel as if it were a weapon.

Sad wasn’t the word she’d use to describe him. At first she’d thought distracted and maybe a bit unfriendly, but now she realized that Greg Bond looked haunted.

Burt Kelley finally called Thursday night. Greg made sure Amber was busy drawing at the kitchen table and went into his office. Burt didn’t have good news. “The footage you’re seeing on television leaves out a few key issues.”

“Such as?” Greg asked.

“I can tell you the definites, the ones you’ll see on the news tomorrow. The flowers the kids reported were also tied with red ribbon, like they were at your wedding. They found shoe prints on the floor of the bedroom that are the same size you wear. Those two items are the most damning. Still, they didn’t find fingerprints on the ribbon and a lot of men wear size 12 shoes, including me.”