Книга - Fugitive Family

Fugitive Family
Pamela Tracy


Six months ago, Alexander Cooke's life was wrecked.His wife was killed, his workplace was robbed…and the evidence pointed to him. He saw one way out–he grabbed his daughter and ran. Now he's got a new life. Yet even with his new identity as Greg Bond, he's still looking over his shoulder. Still waiting for danger to reappear.Then he meets charming schoolteacher Lisa Jacoby, and forgets to keep his distance or protect his heart. When the killer returns, Alex won't run again. He's found a love–a family–he'll face anything to protect.









He hated living someone else’s life.


He wasn’t a laborer; he was a banker. Greg wasn’t wealthy like the real Greg Bond, the man whose identity he’d stolen—borrowed. Alex Cooke was an upwardly mobile man with a wife and child.

He had to remind himself he no longer had a wife.

And Greg knew that just to get at him, whoever had killed his wife wouldn’t hesitate to come after his daughter, too.

He had to remember his number one rule: stay as private as possible; don’t involve others.

That included his daughter’s pretty teacher, Lisa Jacoby.




PAMELA TRACY


lives in Arizona with a newly acquired husband (Yes, Pamela is somewhat a newlywed. You can be a newlywed for seven years. Ack, we’re on year seven!), a confused cat (Hey, I had her all to myself for twenty years. Where’d this guy come from?) and a preschooler (newlymom is almost as fun as newlywed). She was raised in Omaha, Nebraska, and started writing at age twelve (a very bad teen romance featuring David Cassidy from The Partridge Family). Later, she honed her writing skills while earning a BA in Journalism at Texas Tech University in Lubbock, Texas (and wrote a very bad science fiction novel that didn’t feature David Cassidy). Please visit her Web site at www.pamelakayetracy.com, or enjoy her blog at http://ladiesofsuspense.blogspot.com/ or write to her c/o Steeple Hill Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.




Fugitive Family

Pamela Tracy








Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.

—Isaiah 41:10


To my father, Albert Hammonds Tracy,

who continually demonstrated that fatherhood

wasn’t a job, it was a passion.

Also, as always, to the people who help along

the way to completion: my editors, my critique

group, my husband and son, and special thanks to

Roxanne Gould and Paige Dooley—

my final readers.




CONTENTS


PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION




PROLOGUE


Six Months Ago

The bank teller flinched and tried to go faster. Tried being the operative word. She was going as fast as her shaking hands would allow. As she continued to stuff money into the old, blue backpack, he managed a quick look at the customers. Some were hunkered down on all fours. One big man in a wrinkled business suit sobbed louder than the pair of twentysomethings next to him. He never moved his face from between his legs. The twentysomethings did a strange hiccupy thing when they looked at the bleeding security guard. They stopped making any noise at all when they looked at him and his gun. Fear was a powerful motivator. Their forgotten paychecks and deposit slips lay on the floor beside their purses.

Funny how money became unimportant when faced with mortality.

He could see the frantic activity around him, feel the raw energy. He planned for the robbery to take six minutes. He knew the response time, and he knew the dangers of the getaway. Before entering the bank, he’d put an orange cone at the lot’s entry. It wouldn’t completely deter, but it might keep someone new from entering the bank for at least six minutes. Every detail had been perfectly planned, and in this moment, he felt a clarity he would never forget.

Without taking his eyes off the teller, he carefully pulled a pencil from his pocket, inserted it under his mask and scratched at a nonexistent itch. He intended to leave a pencil behind. Not the one he scratched with, but an identical one. One that had taken him three days to snatch; one that did not have his fingerprints on it, but someone else’s.

He moaned in pretend relief. Then he lay the other pencil on the counter.

Ingenious.

He’d chosen the mask wisely, too. He wasn’t wearing a boring black ski mask or impersonating some ex-president. Instead, he looked like a walking maggot infestation. The larvae had taken over his head, neck, and only those with very strong stomachs would wonder what was going on under his plain blue jacket. No one looked especially inclined to get too close.

He smiled. It was really too bad, because in actuality—this more than any other time—was his finest hour. And the critics would never know because this time he wasn’t just acting, he was being. He didn’t have props; he had tools of the trade. Real gun, real backpack, and in the parking lot a real getaway car. He glanced at the security guard. His blood looked real because it was real. The security guard was really the only victim here. The bank could spare the money. The bank manager deserved to spend his life behind bars. Unfortunately, the guard didn’t deserve to forfeit his life. But first-offense bank robbers usually only got a slap on the hand, and this heist was designed to warrant so much more.

He hadn’t expected to feel such a rush. But, then, this was his first time in the lead role, and obviously it was where he belonged. Soon, the world would recognize his talent.

And, really, his talent wasn’t robbing banks.

He’d been planning this robbery for almost a year. There would be no mistakes and soon everything he wanted would be his. He knew this bank and its personnel inside and out. He knew that Wednesday was a slow day and that two major businesses made cash deposits right before noon.

He inched closer to the teller. He’d chosen her because not only was she the youngest, but she was also the new girl on the block.

“Faster, Helen,” he urged. “Make it work.”

She froze, fingers trembling, and slowly looked up. He grinned, not that she could see. He blinked a couple of times, hoping she’d notice the brown eyes.

She finished loading the money: all she had, all the tellers on either side of her had, all the money she could reach.

He grabbed the backpack. He turned, pushed aside a toddler and headed for the door.

He had the money.

He skidded to a stop just before reaching the door, turned one last time to survey the damage, and this time, he didn’t just aim his finger for the pretend itch under his chin.

He put his whole hand there.

The mask popped off like a rocket. He frantically grabbed at it, holding it in front of his face, up, down, and to the side, all the while knowing he’d mastered the perfect look of surprise. Then, with the mask held just below his chin, he looked straight at the surveillance camera.




ONE


“I didn’t kill my wife.”

The voice, deep-pitched and steady, seemingly coming from nowhere, almost caused Greg Bond to drop his hammer. No one would have noticed. They were all busy. Wiping sweat from his brow, he forced himself to stay calm and listen for the sound of his own voice. It only took a moment to find the source, but the noise coming from the construction site drowned out whatever the radio news commentator might be saying next.

He located the radio. It took all Greg’s will not to grab it, turn up the volume and listen to what the next chapter of his life might be.

He fell to his knees, ear pressed to the speaker, and listened as a monotone Paul Harvey wannabe managed four whole sentences.

“The body of Rachel Cooke was discovered earlier this morning in a deserted farmhouse in Yudan, Kansas. Her husband and the prime suspect, Alexander Cooke, already wanted for the murder of a security guard during a bank robbery last April, is still at large. The whereabouts of their six-year-old daughter, Amy Cooke, is unknown. Authorities believe she is still with her father and in danger. In other news…”

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.”

“He’s gorgeous, about thirty, single, his little girl will be in your class.”

Gillian Magee, the teacher who thought Lisa needed a date, was more than right about Mr. Bond’s looks. Definitely gorgeous, with shaggy black hair, he looked about thirty but hadn’t mastered the clean shave yet. He wore a wedding ring, but everyone knew he was a single father.

He was everything Gillian had advertised. Lisa figured that out yesterday when he’d introduced himself.

“Oh, man. You’ve really done it now.” Another construction worker joined them. His hair was black, too, but not shabby.

“Vince,” Greg said, looking more distressed over his coworker’s involvement than over his truck’s attack on her vehicle. “We’ve got everything under control. Thanks for coming over, though.”

“You really are dizzy? Man, I thought you were making it up. You plowed right into her.” Vince bent down and looked under Lisa’s bumper. “Too much damage to be hammered out and you’re going to need a new tire and rim.”

Greg winced before turning to Lisa and saying, “I’ve been meaning to get insurance. Look, you know who I am, and you have a whole construction crew full of witnesses. I’ll get your car towed to a garage, and I’ll pay for the damages. Every last dime. I promise.”

Lisa knew what her sister, Tamara, the lawyer, would say. But, then, Tamara would detain the president of the United States if he didn’t have proper insurance documentation. There were no gray areas in Tamara’s world—only black and white. Her other sister, Sheila—the rebel—would simply blow the whole thing off. The car could be fixed; no one was hurt. End of story. Sheila was a writer. She’d incorporate the whole accident into a plot. Then she could even write it off on taxes.

Vince frowned. “Greg, you don’t have insurance. Man, that’s lame.” He pulled a cell from his pocket and punched a number. “I’ll call my brother. He works at a garage.”

Lisa looked at Greg’s truck. Not even a broken headlight. Soon she could hear Vince talking. His words were impressive enough. He correctly identified the make, model and year of her car. The assessment of damages sounded right. And, the words “Send a tow truck” were somewhat soothing.

Greg still studied the street.

“Am I keeping you from something?” Lisa asked, feeling annoyed. He’d hit her car, after all.

“Guess not,” he finally muttered.

Vince grinned. “Greg’s a little rusty when it comes to women. You’re the new teacher. The guys were wondering why we didn’t have any teachers who looked like you when we went to school here.”

Lisa’s cheeks flamed. She’d been in Sherman, Nebraska, all of two weeks. The first week had been spent finding a place to live. This week had been spent at Sherman Elementary School filling out paperwork, sitting through in-service meetings, and getting her classroom ready. She’d noticed the scrutiny from the construction crew, and while the other teachers laughed it off—most knew the men—Lisa’d wished the parking lot would return to normal: fast.

“How long before the tow truck gets here?” Greg asked, saving her.

“Instead of tow truck, I’ll haul it over tonight. That will save you some money.”

For the first time, Greg looked as if maybe the accident was something he should be concerned about. “How are you going to haul it?”

“I’ve got a hoist and a trailer at home. I’ll—”

Before he could finish, someone shouted from the work site. Vince grinned sheepishly. “I gotta get back. Greg, you feel well enough to drive her home?”

He didn’t wait for Greg to answer, but continued talking to Lisa, “Write down your address and phone number for me and leave a key.”

It took Lisa a moment to retrieve her files from the passenger side of her damaged vehicle. When Greg’s truck hit her car, folders had slid to the floor and the contents had spilled out. Finally she had her files together and climbed into his truck. He was still checking out the street and looked as welcoming as a grouchy pit bull.

“Are you expecting someone?” she said.

He closed her door and came around to get behind the wheel. He gave her a guarded look. “No, why?”

“You keep checking out the street.”

He didn’t answer.

“I live on Elm Street. Just past the library.”

He paused, definitely torn about something, and then said, “Do you mind if I pick up my daughter, Amber, from the babysitter first? It’s on the way.”

“Sure.”

After five minutes of silence, she realized one thing for sure: Greg Bond wasn’t into small talk. Usually, parents jumped right in, wanting to know what kind of a teacher she was, how many years’ experience she had, if she volunteered time after school, and the like. Greg didn’t ask a single question.

Even though she knew the answer, Lisa made an effort to bridge the silence. “How long have you lived in Sherman?”

“A little more than four months.”

“Where’d you live before?”

He took his eyes off the road for a moment and studied her. He had blue eyes, stunning blue eyes, the color of cobalt. Not what she expected. Not with Indian black hair. She’d expected brooding dark-brown eyes.

“We moved around a lot. Not sure I’d call any place home. Where did you live before moving here?”

Okay, he changed the subject, from him to her, but at least she had a conversation going. “I’m from Tucson, Arizona. My family is still there.”

“So what brought you to Sherman?” he asked. Not that he looked as if he cared to hear the answer. His attention was on everything but her.

“A bit of wanderlust. I graduated three months ago and didn’t want to stay in Arizona. I wanted to travel, see the world. I have a good friend in Omaha, so I explored Nebraska a bit online to see where teachers were needed, and then applied here. The rest is history.”

He didn’t respond. Maybe he hadn’t been listening.

“Like my car,” she added.

He shook his head. “I deserved that. I do have something on my mind. Today’s just not been a great day.”

“Fine.”

To her surprise, he didn’t react to her sarcastic fine. He drove a few more blocks, pulled into a white clapboard house, and came around to open the door for her.

“You might as well come in. It always takes Amber some time to gather her things.”

They’d only taken two steps toward the house when noise erupted from inside.

“That’s my wild child,” Greg said.

Something loud hit the screen door. Almost immediately came the sounds of “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!”

“She sure gets excited when she sees you.”

“Yeah,” Greg admitted. “I hope that never changes.”

It was the most human thing he’d said so far. But then, he’d stopped looking up and down the street and was focused completely on the scene in front of him. An elderly woman opened the door wide enough for Amber Bond to squeeze out and a bundle of energy, dressed in jeans and a blue T-shirt, launched through the air and into Greg’s arms.

“Daddy!”

Lisa watched as relief relaxed his features. He hugged his daughter tightly and choked out, “Amber, did you have a good day?”

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“This is your first-grade teacher. Daddy managed to hit her car with his car and she needs a ride home.”

“You’re my new teacher?”

“I am.” Lisa bent down, eye level to the little girl, meeting a pair of blue eyes the same shade as Greg’s, and said, “I’ll bet you’re six years old and that you are a good artist.”

“How’d you know? Daddy! How’d she know?”

“Teachers have to be pretty smart.”

Greg swung Amber up into his arms and held the front door open for Lisa. She followed him into a room where every surface screamed family. Photos dominated the walls. Lisa immediately got homesick. She’d gone two weeks without seeing her mother or sisters. She’d never been away from them before.

A gray-haired woman turned down the television and then offered Lisa her hand. “Since Greg seems to have forgotten his manners, I’m Lydia Griffin.”

“Amber’s babysitter and best friend,” Greg added, putting Amber down. “Besides me, she’s the only one allowed to pick Amber up from school.”

“Overprotective father,” Mrs. Griffin said.

Lisa figured that.

“Wise father,” Greg countered.

“This is my new teacher,” Amber announced before plopping to the floor to carefully load coloring books, lined notebooks, crayons, pencils and loose paper into a backpack. She had a place for everything and everything went into its place. “Daddy hit her car, and she already knows I’m a good drawer.”

“Way to start the school year, Greg,” Mrs. Griffin said before scrutinizing Lisa. “So you’re the one taking over for Karen.”

“Yes. She showed up at school today with her new baby. Everyone was excited,” Lisa said.

“Daddy, look.”

“We didn’t think that girl would ever get married.” Mrs. Griffin chuckled. “Then she met, married and quit working, all in a school year.”

“A lot can happen in a short time,” Lisa agreed.

“Daddy, look.”

Finally, the grown-ups looked. The sound was off, but the picture said it all: a bank robbery. The grainy surveillance camera caught the bank robber as he entered and exited. He wore a gray jumpsuit and some sort of mask.

“They’re replaying that bank robbery from earlier this year,” Mrs. Griffin said. “They found the wife’s body. It’s on all the channels.”

“Daddy, look,” Amber repeated. “You’re on TV.”




TWO


Amber’s eyes remained glued to the television. Mrs. Griffin and Lisa turned to look at Greg. He wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. He absolutely did not know how to handle this.

Mrs. Griffin’s look was one of amusement. She’d been watching Amber all summer and knew about his little girl’s imagination. She’d seen the drawings Amber made of her friends, her cat and her history. History being what worried Greg. He suspected that Mrs. Griffin had a vague idea that somewhere, at some time, existed a mother with curly blond hair who liked going to the park, who liked to sit at a dinner table and eat pizza, and who liked to read books to a little girl who sat in her lap. He hoped Mrs. Griffin didn’t question why sometimes the daddy in the pictures had brown hair instead of black, or why the little girl was blond. Mrs. Griffin probably knew Amber had lived in a two-story house, and it had been made of brick. She probably even suspected that Greg, judging by the cars Amber drew and the suit and tie Amber drew him in, had at one time worked in a white-collar job.

Lisa Jacoby had a look of pure curiosity. She knew little or nothing about Greg and Amber Bond, except what last year’s kindergarten teacher, Gillian Magee, had managed to figure out during the last month of school—that the little girl drew all the time and that Greg was a bit of a hovering parent.

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

Greg managed what he hoped was a straight face and said, “The bank robber is wearing what’s called a grub mask. I bought one once, a long time ago, for a costume party.”

“It scared me,” Amber agreed.

“What exactly is a grub mask?” Mrs. Griffin asked.

“Maggot head,” Amber answered.

“That’s basically it,” Greg agreed. “It’s a mask designed to look like a maggot infestation. We no longer have the mask, and I’m sorry I taught my daughter the words maggot head.” Greg gave Amber what he hoped was a stern look and then started to pick up her backpack. Instead, she scooted over and grabbed it. It was a continual power struggle of “I can do it, Daddy” versus “Honey, I’m not quite ready to let you take on the world.”

Today, right now, he didn’t care to battle. The most important thing was the fact that even though Mrs. Griffin had said the words, Amber didn’t get that her mother’s body had been found.

Didn’t get that her mother was dead.

Didn’t get that her father’s heart was broken yet again and that there wasn’t a thing he could do about it: not grieve, not scream, not even demand justice.

He didn’t have the time or the energy. Not if he wanted to keep Amber safe.

“Are you all packed?” Greg asked quickly. He needed to get out of here before the ladies asked any questions, before the news ran a repeat of his denial and the sound of Alex’s voice saying, “I did not kill my wife,” made the ladies look at Greg.

And inspired Amber to say, “Listen, Daddy, I can hear you talking.”

“Yes,” Amber chirped. “I’m all packed.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Griffin,” he said, and hurried the ladies out to the truck, wishing he could simply pick Amber up and run—anything to get Lisa to her home and him to his—but no, Amber insisted on carrying her own backpack, dragging her feet, and casting curious looks at Lisa. Well, no wonder! It had been months since she’d seen a pretty woman—any woman for that matter—get into a vehicle with her father. He’d been so concerned about picking up Amber, making sure she was safe, that he’d forgotten his own rule.

Stay as private as possible; don’t involve others.

He should have taken the teacher home first. Amber would have been fine. And this was just the beginning! Staying private had proved impossible from the moment he’d heard the news on the radio. Since the announcement, he’d been the center of attention of his coworkers—both in the parking lot and when he plowed into Lisa’s car—and now, thanks to a grub mask, he’d also piqued both Mrs. Griffin’s and Miss Jacoby’s interest.

As Greg hoisted Amber into the truck, he whispered in her ear, “Everything’s okay. We’ll talk when we get home.”

Amber nodded, scooted to the middle and started fiddling with the seat belt. Lisa reached over to help.

It was an everyday occurrence, a woman helping a child, but the sight of his little girl—short, black hair and Dora the Explorer shirt—and her teacher—shoulder-length, reddish-gold hair and dark blue dress—sitting side by side in the truck’s cab and fiddling with the seat belts gave Greg pause.

Amber’s mother should be sitting in the truck. She should be the one helping Amber with her seat belt, getting ready to send Amber off to first grade, and helping to raise Amber.

Lisa’s hair was full and straight, instead of blond and curly, like Greg’s late wife’s. Lisa was about a decade younger. Lisa probably would live to a ripe old age, watching her children grow, and bouncing grandchildren on her knee.

His wife had made it to her thirty-third birthday. She’d given birth to one child, talked about a second. She’d never see her daughter graduate from high school, let alone get married and produce grandchildren.

Rachel Cooke’s body had been discovered six months to the day after Alexander Cooke allegedly robbed his first bank and killed his first victim.



On the drive from the babysitter’s place to the teacher’s, Greg Bond didn’t say a word. He gripped the steering wheel and stared, white-faced, straight ahead. He possessed a raw power she wasn’t used to. Amber frowned at her father, confused, and then stared at Lisa with an expression of awe and fear. Finally, realizing that she had a captive audience, she opened her backpack.

“This is Tiffany.” Amber put a drawing in Lisa’s lap. “She’s my best friend.” It was a drawing of a pudgy girl with long hair in pigtails and wearing a yellow shirt and orange pants.

“I like her red hair.”

“Me, too. I like yours.”

Lisa glanced at Greg. He didn’t glance back. Good, because it meant he kept his eyes on the road.

Amber didn’t allow too much time for speculation. “Do you have a best friend?”

“I do, but she’s back in Arizona. I have lots of good friends, though, who live in Nebraska, over in Omaha. Here in Sherman, I’m starting to make friends with your teacher from last year. Miss Magee.”

“She’s nice. This is Mikey.” Another picture landed in Lisa’s lap. “He’s not nice.”

“I take it this is Mikey Maxwell? From school?”

“Yes, and he’s mean.”

For the rest of the drive, Amber pretty much introduced Lisa to all the students who’d be showing up in the first-grade classroom on Monday. Lisa managed to convince Amber that names were enough because Amber was clearly willing to divide Lisa’s future students into two categories—mean and nice.

By the time Lisa made it to her apartment, she was in the mood to buy colored pencils and a drawing tablet. She cheerfully accepted a hug from Amber and then said goodbye to Greg, who barely waved as he put his foot on the gas.

Since it hadn’t been a date, Lisa didn’t know why she was so annoyed at the way Greg had dropped her off. He didn’t see her to the door; he didn’t idle by the curb until she got inside.

Her sister Sheila was right. Men who acted uninterested were the most interesting men of all.

She was intrigued as she climbed the stairs to her attic apartment. It really was too cute for words, as was Greg Bond. In her native Tucson, Arizona, Lisa had never even seen an attic apartment. The attic in her childhood home had been a crawl space where her father stored Christmas decorations. None of her friends’ homes had boasted real attics or basements.

Nebraska had plenty of both.

Her landlady, Deborah Hawn, rented the basement apartment to a computer geek. He had shaggy hair and apparently seldom ventured out. Lisa had only seen him once. Her place—A-shaped and long, with a living room in the middle, a bedroom at one side, and the kitchen and restroom at the other—was a perfect starter home.

It came furnished. She’d only needed to buy bedding and a few odds and ends. What really sold her on the place, though, was the tiny balcony. Just big enough for a rocking chair and a little table; she could sit outside in the early evening and watch the park next to the library. There was always something going on.

Like tonight.

Lisa made herself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, poured a glass of milk and sat down outside. Whoever said it didn’t get hot in Nebraska had never been to Nebraska. She leaned her head back, closed her eyes and relaxed.

Maybe this time next year, she’d be on one of the softball teams, practicing in the park in front of her. She’d played second base in high school. Or even better, maybe in a few years she’d be chasing a toddler, and instead of living in an attic apartment she’d be living in one of the Victorians just a short way from downtown.

The evening light was fading when she finally went inside and sat down to finish the work she’d brought home. She worked on smoothing the wrinkles. In the middle of working, she came across Greg’s phone number. He had straight up and down block handwriting, no cursive, and he used a clear stroke.

She’d gone through four years of college, dated more than her share, nothing even close to serious, and none of the guys had her studying their handwriting. What was it that drew her to him? This quickly and with no reason? So far, their two encounters had to do with an overeager father and a fender bender.

Was it the exuberant way his daughter greeted him? Amber’s eyes lit up and it was as if someone had switched on the light to her whole world.

He was also the type of man who called his babysitter by her proper name instead of her first name.

Her final thought before she drifted off to sleep was that she’d almost think of him as a gentleman, if only he’d walked her to her door.

Thursday morning, Lisa’s eyes opened at six. In the hazy morning sunrise, she stretched, looked in the mirror and quickly realized that, without a car, she wasn’t going to be driving to work.

She’d been a little remiss in getting all the phone numbers she needed yesterday. And last names, for that matter. She knew Greg’s information, but all she had for Vince was a first name, and it was really his brother who had her vehicle.

A quick call to Gillian garnered a ride to work, a quick shower solved the morning’s doldrums and a quick breakfast filled her stomach.

By seven she was outside and waiting for Gillian.

No doubt Gillian, who knew everybody and everything, would not only know Vince’s last name, but also what year he’d gone to high school, where he lived, whom he loved and where he went to church.

Church seemed like a staple of the Sherman community. Gillian had been more than surprised when Lisa not only turned down the invitation to church, but also admitted to not attending at all.

“What do you do when you’re lonely?” Gillian had asked.

Lisa didn’t have an answer. Until moving to Sherman, she had never felt lonely.



“Daddy, you’re on TV again!”

Greg looked up from the Internet. Since last night, and really all through the night, he’d read a hundred different reports on the discovery of his wife’s body. He’d watched a dozen videos. Yudan, Kansas, was a farm community of maybe two thousand souls—most quite wealthy. Still, as in most areas, there were pockets of poverty. A broken-down mobile home, a century-old unpainted barn, a few falling-down, deserted farmhouses.

Rachel’s body had been discovered by kids thinking that a deserted farm was the perfect place for a party. They’d been wrong. Oddly enough, the cops acknowledged that the farm was a common party destination and that the kids hadn’t stumbled upon the body because, until this particular party, the room had been locked.

The cops were pretty sure that more than twenty kids had trampled over the crime scene. Fifteen didn’t stick around to wait for the cops to arrive after an honors student with a conscience used her cell phone to call her mother.

Right now, cops were still working on the five teenagers who’d stuck around to face the music. They all had the same story. The room was always locked. No, they hadn’t noticed an odor or anything out of place. They had never seen any strange adults or cars near the place.

The nearest neighbor, and the owner of the farm, had purchased the property ten years ago, meaning to do something with it, and simply hadn’t got around to it. He didn’t know the teenagers were breaking and entering.

Greg had never been to Yudan. Until her death, he doubted that his wife had, either, even though it was only ninety miles from where they lived. Cops weren’t saying if she died before or after she’d arrived at the farmhouse.

They probably didn’t know yet.

One thing the cops did know, according to the news, was that Rachel Cooke’s husband, Alex Cooke, still on the run and suspected of snatching his then five-year-old daughter, remained the key suspect. The cops weren’t commenting on one item that the five teenagers had reported.

There were flowers in the room Rachel had been found in. Lots of flowers. Some dead and brittle. Some wilted and sad. And one bunch amazingly fresh.

Like the cops, Greg had his own suspicions. The cops thought Alex Cooke had been bringing flowers to his wife and had forgotten to lock the door.

Greg knew the key suspect was the same person who’d robbed the bank in Wellington, Kansas—his bank, the one he’d managed.

Greg also knew that the murderer was someone both he and Rachel knew. Because the flowers were the kind they’d used in their wedding. Rachel’s favorite: daisies.

“Daddy, come look. It’s you again!”

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.




THREE


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.”

“You also know the colors Rachel picked out for the wedding.”

Greg could almost picture Burt. Back in high school, Burt had been one of Greg’s many friends. Today Burt was his only friend. Slight and pale, Burt didn’t look impressive, but he had the heart of a gladiator.

Burt continued, “The farmhouse has been used as a party place before, many times. If there was any evidence outside the room Rachel was found in, it’s been irrevocably compromised. The bedroom where the two teens found Rachel isn’t as compromised.”

“They won’t find anything that leads to me!”

“Don’t be cocky,” Burt said snidely. The remark took Greg all the way back to junior high. He and Burt sitting behind the school, smoking cigarettes and looking for trouble. Burt always found it. Until six months ago, Greg had always managed to sidestep it.

Just his luck the first time trouble landed in his lap, it was for something he didn’t do, something he had no control over.

“Well, what should I be worrying about? What won’t they be releasing to the media tomorrow?” Greg asked. “Did I leave another pencil at the scene? Or maybe I left a Polaroid, or even better, I videotaped the murder and just happened to leave the tape behind.”

“Don’t say that—not even to me.”

While Greg had gone to college, Burt had gone to jail. He’d been straddling the three-strikes-and-you’re-out law when a Texas judge challenged him.

Get a life or serve life.

Burt figured he was only good at one thing: being a criminal. He turned that gift into a career of catching criminals. Right now, Burt was a fairly well-known and successful bail enforcement agent—a bounty hunter—who currently worked for only one client.

Alex Cooke.

He was the only person, besides Amber, who knew that Alex Cooke and Greg Bond were one and the same.

“Okay,” Greg agreed. “I won’t say it again. But I’d still like to know what it is they think they have that ties me to Rachel’s murder.”

“Believe me, I intend to find out,” Burt promised. “Greg, I’ve investigated every employee you’ve worked with, and some who came before and after. I’ve tracked down people who blamed the bank for loans gone bad, people who were denied loans and even John Q. Public, who is plugging along paying off his loan. I’ve dug into the history of the contract workers the bank has hired. I know about the people who clean the bank, the men who take care of the grounds, and all the delivery people.

“I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours trying to see if any of the people I’ve investigated in the last year can be tied to the Yudan area. I’ve looked into who owns all the land within a hundred miles. I’ve checked family histories. And I’ve come up with nothing. I think it’s time to stop focusing on you, on who has a vendetta against you. In truth, you were a workaholic who really didn’t get out much. Based on the killer’s dedication to bringing flowers to Rachel’s burial site, I think it’s time to look closer at your wife’s history.”

“Everyone loved Rachel.”

“And that might very well be the motivator. I’ve already started some preliminary investigating. Rachel was very social. Look, Greg, I’m calling you from a hotel near your old house. I’ve already visited the gym she belonged to. I’m starting my list of who she said hi to and who worked out in the morning at the same time. I’ve been to the grocery store where she bought food, her favorite clothing stores, toy stores and bookstores. I know her favorite coffee shop, lunch place and everyone who ever had a playdate with Amy. I’ve even—”

“Enough,” Greg said. “Investigating my life and my wife’s life together seems to have gotten us nowhere. There must be another angle.”

“I want to go back further. On both of you.”

Greg could only shake his head. “I don’t even remember all the foster homes.”

“Well, navigating the foster-care system happens to be a skill of mine, and since we shared an address or two while in the system, investigating your youth shouldn’t be so hard,” Burt said. “I’m going back further on your wife, too.”

Greg shook his head, not that Burt could see. “Good luck. She was the darling of Lawrence, Kansas. Cheerleader, class vice president, lead in her senior play.”

“And she married you? What waaas she thinking?”

Before Rachel’s death, the comment would have garnered a chuckle between two friends who’d somehow managed to make good. Today, it only reduced them to a silence that Burt finally broke.

“How often did you visit her hometown?”

“Since her family died, not very often. It made her too sad. I think in the last five years the only trip we made to Lawrence was for her high school reunion.”

“Her family have money I don’t know about?” Burt asked.

“No, everything is upfront. Her dad owned a hardware store. Mom was a homemaker. What do you think?”

“I think they didn’t have money.”

“I made more money in a week than her dad did in a month,” Greg said. “Which is another reason why it makes no sense to portray me as a bank robber. My robbing a bank makes about as much sense as me killing my wife. Why would I kill her? Why? I loved my wife.”

“The world seldom makes sense,” Burt said.

He’d said the same thing all those years ago when they were taken from a “good” foster home, not given a reason and placed in another.

Silence returned.

Finally, Burt said, “The best news I can give you is that nothing ties Yudan, Kansas, to Sherman, Nebraska. You’re safe for the moment. Stay put, act normal and thank God.”

Greg closed his eyes, feeling choked up. A year ago, if someone had told him to thank God, he’d have laughed. God was for the weak. Greg, as Alex, had been too busy carving out a life to spend time with and for God.

A stolen identity, a scared child, and a black void in his life had somehow landed him in God’s capable hands, and if it weren’t for the Bible and the church, he’d be lost, so lost, when it came to raising Amber without her mother.

When Greg could talk again, he said, “I’m not turning myself in. More than anything, I want to be involved in the investigation. I want to answer their questions and work alongside the authorities. But every single newscast has declared me guilty. What about innocent until proven guilty? Burt, during the time it would take to clear me, Amber would be in foster care. I won’t allow that.”

“I, more than anyone, understand. And if I wasn’t already a person of interest—they’ve stopped me for questioning twice—I’d take her. Greg, man, you have to find someone you trust. Someone who will disappear with Amber until you clear yourself and we find the real culprit.”

“There is no one. Give me another suggestion,” Greg said, gritting his teeth. Burt knew there was no one to leave Amber with, but he kept asking. Greg and Burt both had been raised in the foster-care system, which is why he’d do anything, be anything, to keep Amber out of it. Rachel’s parents and younger brother had died in an automobile accident when Rachel was a freshman in college. And it wouldn’t be fair to ask a church friend to watch Amber, because all it would do is pull one more soul into this wretched game.

Besides, he couldn’t imagine any of the good souls at Sherman’s Main Street Church willing to disappear, to run, should the need arise. Amber’s safety was up to him. Now it was Greg and Amber and God against the world.

“Okay, stay in Nebraska,” Burt relented. “But, remember, go out in the evenings. The more people who see you the better. Somehow our killer’s going to stumble, and I want you to have alibis for every minute of the day. Remember, act normal.”

Greg hung up the phone and stared at it for a few minutes before going to check on Amber. Act normal. Rachel was the actor in the family. It wasn’t fair that Greg had the job now.



The last thing Greg wanted to do on Friday was return to work. He really wanted to stay glued to the Internet, typing in keywords, and looking for newly released footage. But he knew Burt was right about being seen in public. The discovery of Rachel’s body meant the FBI was back to making Alexander Cooke a top priority—again. They’d be looking for him.

Only three people knew that Alexander Cooke had dyed his brown hair black, started wearing blue contacts to hide brown eyes, worked with tools instead of numbers and drove a Ford truck instead of a BMW. Alex, aka Greg Bond; Amber, whose real name was Amy; and Burt.

Act normal. There was nothing normal about living under an assumed name, dying your hair and your daughter’s hair every few weeks, and jumping at shadows. But Greg had done it for months now. If it kept Amber safe, he’d do it for the rest of his life.

“Hey, Greg!” Vince pulled up next to him in the elementary school parking lot. “Surprised you’re back. Dizziness gone?”

“Yes.”

Unfortunately, short answers had never deterred Vince.

“I spoke with my brother yesterday. You did over $2,000 in damage to Lisa’s car. She doesn’t seem too mad. Her and Gillian sure had a lot of questions about you.”

For a moment, fear threatened to spill over. The urge to run surfaced. Greg reined in both emotions. “What kind of questions?”

“What do you do for fun? What happened to your wife? Why you’re still wearing your wedding ring.”

The typical questions single women always asked. Keeping the wedding ring was probably a mistake. It was the ring Rachel had slipped on his finger nine years ago. It was the only visible link to his past. He’d taken it off right after he’d snatched Amy from her friend Molly Turner’s house. He’d put it back on a month later. Sometimes he felt it was all he had left of Rachel.

“Why do you think she had all those questions?” Greg asked, although he knew. He was a single man in a town of single women.

“It wasn’t Lisa so much—more Gillian. Let me tell you, she talked her way through school the first time and, boy, she’s still talking.”

Amber’s former kindergarten teacher was outgoing. Greg had two-stepped around many a question during the last month of school. Then, wouldn’t you know it, when he decided to try his neighborhood church—something to do and a way to get Amber socializing—there was Gillian, introducing him to people he didn’t want to meet and asking even more questions he couldn’t really answer.

Thank goodness Gillian was engaged. It meant she wasn’t looking at him as a potential suitor. Unfortunately, Greg knew the fiancé, even played ball with the man, and didn’t much care for him. Maybe because Perry Jenson reminded Greg too much of ol’ Alexander Cooke, climbing the corporate ladder and spending more time at work than with the people who loved him.

Greg followed Vince to the job trailer. It only took a few minutes to get his assignment and then he was doing cleanup. It took Vince another half hour before he joined Greg, turned on his radio and began life as usual. Where Vince had been for thirty minutes, Greg didn’t want to know.

Vince put on his gloves and looked at Greg. He started the conversation right where they had left off. “I told them you needed to take off your wedding ring because it’s dangerous to wear. I told them that you don’t socialize much. Really, Gillian seemed to know more about you than I do.”

Greg had been paired up with Vince plenty of times. Vince knew that last year Miss Magee had been Amber’s teacher. You’d think he’d have mentioned knowing her.

When Greg didn’t respond, Vince said, “Gillian happened to be there when I stopped by to tell Lisa about my brother’s estimate.”

“The one that’s going to cost me an arm and a leg.”

Vince nodded. “That one.”

“What did Miss Jacoby say?” Greg had a hard time keeping his mind on cleaning up. Today he and Vince were the only ones doing all the odds and ends that came with completing a job. The work was virtually done. Almost everyone else had been sent other places.

“Lisa didn’t say nothing. Until my brother gets the fender, there’s nothing to say. She’s been bumming rides with Gillian.”

As if beckoned by Vince’s words, Gillian pulled into the parking lot. Both men stopped, walked to the edge, and watched. Gillian moved quickly. She was out of the car and unloading stuff from her backseat before Lisa had the passenger-side door opened. Both women wore those jeans that didn’t quite reach their ankles. Lisa also had a pink short-sleeved shirt, and her red hair was in a ponytail, reminding Greg how young she was.

“Yowza,” Vince said.

Greg could only nod. School started on Monday and all the teachers and staff were arriving. A typical day, for them. He needed to do the right thing and take care of her car. After all, he might not be here in another twenty-four hours, depending on what Burt found out.

He hated not knowing the future. Hated living someone else’s life. He wasn’t a laborer; he was a banker. Greg wasn’t wealthy, like the real Greg Bond, the man whose identity he’d stolen—well, borrowed. Alex Cooke was an upwardly mobile young man with a wife and child.

He had to remind himself that he no longer had a wife.

Vince’s radio, newly turned on and blaring before the start of the morning duties, reiterated that fact.

Authorities had just determined that the gun used in the bank robbery—the gun that killed the security guard—was the same gun used approximately six months ago to kill Rachel Cooke.




FOUR


Since she didn’t have a ladder, Lisa used one of the children’s desks to help her get to the out-of-reach places where she wanted to put “Welcome Back” posters.

Right before lunch, Vince meandered in. Greg, looking as if he’d rather be anyplace but here, and as if he hadn’t slept a wink, was right behind him.

Haunted. Yup. Distracted, too, but not unfriendly.

Vince didn’t waste any time. “My brother says it’s going to be a few days before you get your car back.”

It was rather fun to gaze down at them. Vince looked like he’d willingly catch her if she fell. Greg looked like he expected her to fall and break. She put him out of his misery, climbed down and said, “I like riding with Miss Magee. It’s not a problem. Really,” she emphasized looking right at Greg and smiling. “There’s no need to feel bad. Are you all right?”

“He woke up grouchy,” Vince said. “Me, I woke up just fine, and I can give you a ride anywhere you need to go this weekend, too. My brother says he’ll have the fender tomorrow, and your car should be ready Monday at the latest.”

“If possible,” Greg said, tersely. “I’ll head over there Monday and check out the car with you. Then, after you look at it and are sure you’re happy, I’ll pay for everything. We’ll make it work.”

Then, before she could ask questions, they were gone. Well, at least Greg was. Vince hung around a moment talking about dinner, movies, playing pool.

Lisa checked her watch and said she was meeting someone.

That someone was Gillian, who five hours later, gave Lisa a ride to the old Victorian that Lisa called home. Just after six, fading daylight offered the first hint of evening shadows. The wind sent a few leaves blowing up the sidewalk. Lisa opened the car door and started to step out.

“The folks playing softball across the street are the team from my church,” Gillian said. “They’re excited. Tonight’s their first game in this final season. I’m going over to watch. Why don’t you come along?”

Lisa glanced at the park. She’d watched so many of their practices from her balcony that she almost felt as if she knew them. They had a strong first basewoman and pitcher. The outfield was okay, but second and third base were clearly the weak links. It would be nice to put names to the players. They’d be around for Lisa’s viewing pleasure long after Gillian stopped bringing Lisa home.

Besides, the clink of a bat hitting a ball, followed by cheers, was starting to be a feel-good sound—a sound that signaled home, safety, community. Plus, Gillian was quickly becoming a friend. The type of friend who might one day be the Let’s go shopping; how about a movie type of friend. Lisa had already turned down two invitations to Gillian’s church; attending a church softball team sounded safe.

“Yeah, great idea,” she agreed. “Let me run upstairs and drop off some stuff.”

Gillian followed her up the stairs and into the tiny apartment. She stood in the doorway and looked right, then left. “Wow, I’ve never seen a place so small.”

Lisa tossed her purse onto the tiny kitchen table and headed for the bathroom. “It’s perfect for now. I only signed a ten-month lease. Then I’ll either know this is the job and place for me and get something bigger or I’ll go back to Tucson.”

“Don’t let Principal Mott hear you say that,” Gillian called. “She expects life sentences from her teachers. Look how long Mrs. Henry’s been there.”

“Longer than I’ve been alive, and she’ll remind you of that every chance she gets.” Lisa laughed.

When Lisa left the bathroom, Gillian continued, “Karen, who you’re replacing, taught for fifteen years.”

“Hmm,” Lisa said. “So, besides me, that makes you the new kid on the block.”

“Not so new. I attended Sherman Elementary School, my mom was the school nurse—back when the school nurse was a full-time position—and my dad was on the school board. I basically was slated for a position the day I graduated college.”

Lisa grabbed a soda, offered one to Gillian, and opened the door to the sound of a ball connecting with a bat. A cheer followed. Gillian grabbed the soda and quickly headed down the stairs.

“Are you in a hurry?” Lisa asked.

Gillian slowed and nodded. “Perry was supposed to get back today. He hasn’t called, but he plays on the team. I just want to see if he’s back.”

Lisa had heard all about Perry Jenson. He worked for the mayor’s office and spent more time in Lincoln, Nebraska’s capital, than in Sherman.

“What position does he play?” Lisa asked.

“Second base.”

That certainly explained why second base had been weak during practice. The real player had been absent. Lisa hoped there was a good explanation for third base, too. “Why do you suppose he hasn’t called?” Lisa asked.

“Oh,” Gillian said breezily. “He gets busy.”

The team was still warming up when Lisa and Gillian climbed onto the bleachers. Gillian seemed to know everybody and everybody came by to say hi except Perry, who was back in town and busy warming up. There came a round of introductions, complemented by a smattering of Oh, you’re the new first-grade teacher and ending with a few You’ll be seeing my son, daughter, grandchild, come Monday.

Before Lisa had time to put faces to names, a man carrying a roster sat down next to Gillian. “We need two more players.”

“Not me.” Gillian held up a sandaled foot.

He looked at Lisa, and she shook her head. “I’d love to, but I don’t belong to your church.”

“Belonging to the church is a perk, not a requirement.”

“Reverend Pynchon never misses an opportunity,” Gillian joked. “Really, thanks for asking, but the last time I played outfield, the ball hit me in the head.”

The minister looked at Lisa.

“I play second base.”

Wrong thing to say, his eyes lit up.

“I don’t have any gear.”

“We can provide the gear.”

Lisa grinned. “Just tell me when and where.”

“Perfect,” he said. “We have our team, but I need a few more live bodies, and the list has to go in today. Gillian, can I put your name down, too?”

“Do it, Gillian!” Perry yelled.

Gillian looked trapped.

Lisa took the clipboard from Gillian’s hands and dutifully wrote down her name and number. Slowly, Gillian did the same, but stipulated, “Only call me as a last resort.”

He nodded, somebody hollered Batter up, and the game began.

A few minutes later, Lisa knew why the preacher’s eyes had lit up. Hopefully, Perry was better at politics than he was at softball. The church team was playing the field, and the other team scored three runs with their first three at bats. Perry missed a grounder aimed dead-on at him, one she would have snagged, and also failed to back up the first baseman on another grounder.

Perry didn’t act as if he cared that Gillian was in the bleachers. Lisa was about to make a remark about that when she finally noticed the man playing third base.

Greg Bond.

Why had he missed so many practices? Just how dizzy had be been last week? Well, he certainly wasn’t dizzy tonight, and he was a pretty good player. Definitely a better player than Perry, and more observant, both when it came to the game and when it came to women. When Lisa—along with a hot dog, a bag of chips and a brownie—settled down to enjoy the game, Greg looked her way. For an unguarded moment, a half grin came to his face. Then, the mask returned and he gave his full attention to third base. For the next half hour, as Lisa finished her hot dog, brownie and purchased another soda, he kept looking her way. It was almost embarrassing.

“See.” Gillian nudged her. “He likes you. He’s perfect for you, I’m telling you.”

“Hush,” Lisa said. “He’s still wearing his wedding ring. That says it all.”

“Perry barely noticed that I’m here,” Gillian complained. “One quick wave.”

At that moment, two little girls ran toward the fence in front of the bleachers. They hit it hard. A boy was moments behind them. “Daddy!” Amber cried. “I’m hungry.”

“Me, too!” the other two cried.

Lisa turned around. Behind her was the playground.

Greg hadn’t been checking her out; he’d been keeping an eye on his daughter.



Greg’s mind was definitely not on softball. If it had been anything but a church league, he’d have been benched.

His mind was on the bullet, Rachel and Burt.

He’d left work again, claiming dizziness, and had headed home. This time, his boss told him to see a doctor. This time, he didn’t have an accident or need to retrieve Amber. He’d scanned the Internet until his eyes were crossed. He’d watched the news until he could recite the same old reports. And after eight hours, all he knew was he needed—no, deserved—to bury Rachel properly, and he knew he was slowly losing his mind waiting for Burt to call. Burt had better have something more than what the news channels were reporting.

After making sure the batter wasn’t ready, Greg checked his cell phone one more time, just to make sure it was on.

It was—no missed calls.

It was Amber’s need to be with other kids and Greg’s need to take his mind off his cell phone that drove him out of the house.

It was the wise and healthy choice. It was getting to the point where he wanted to smash his fist right through the screen as he listened to newsman after newswoman read the teleprompter, condemning him.

Unfortunately, softball wasn’t enough of a contact sport to take the edge off his anger.

When Lisa showed up at the softball game, Greg noticed but didn’t have time to really think about it. He focused on his daughter’s whereabouts while listening for the cell phone stashed in his back pocket. He didn’t care about the dirty looks his teammates would give him should it ring. He needed to hear what Burt had to say. He wanted to hear that there was some hope of getting his life back!

The first game of the season already hinted at a shutout. The score was 10–2. His team had heart; the other team had a cutthroat mentality.

In some ways, it was Greg’s fault. He’d missed every practice. He blamed himself. Somewhere, somehow, he’d really antagonized somebody, and that someone had taken over his life.

Sometimes he didn’t feel as if he deserved to have fun. God, it seemed, and the people of Sherman, Nebraska, had other ideas.

The center fielder was the town sheriff, a man named Jake Ramsey who made Greg nervous by his offers of friendship. Even he managed to make it to more practices than Greg, which only implied that it was better to chase criminals than be considered one.

“Batter up!”

Greg glanced over at Amber, then picked up his bat and ambled to the plate. He was able to concentrate by reverting to an old trick. The ball zoomed toward him; it was the bank robber’s, the murderer’s, head. He swung; the ball clanked at impact, and in a flash Greg went around first, second, third and thundered across home well before the ball made it back to the infield.

He hadn’t even realized that two people were on base.

Maybe the game wouldn’t be a total embarrassment after all.

“Good going,” Perry said. The mayor’s assistant had struck out. Looking at the bleachers, Perry did the politician’s wave, almost as if he had just homered and driven in three runs.

The sheriff patted Greg on the back. “Way to get us in the game.” The applause died down, and Greg looked over to where Amber was playing. She hadn’t noticed the hit, but it looked as if Miss Jacoby and Miss Magee had. They were both smiling as if he’d struck gold.

Miss Magee waved.

Greg looked over at Perry.

The man was an idiot.

If Rachel were here, if Rachel could be cheering Greg on, he would notice. He would hop the fence and give his wife a huge kiss, wave at the fans and grin in satisfaction. Not because of the hit but because of the kiss.

Stop being an idiot, Perry, he urged silently.

The next player made the third out, and Greg trotted to third base. For the next ten minutes he had plenty of time to think because, for some reason, the other team wasn’t hitting.

This was his second turn at coed softball with the church’s team, thanks to a stubborn minister. And—surprise, surprise—he enjoyed it. Tonight was different. In some ways, he needed to be here, away from the Internet, away from the gut-wrenching fear that tied him to the house and to his memories.

Yup, this was God’s way of making sure Greg knew that life was for the living.

When the minister had first approached him about playing on the team, right after Greg had joined the church, Greg said, “No, thanks. I really don’t have the time.”

Then Amber started in. “Daddy, Tiffany’s daddy plays. It’s every Friday night and while her daddy plays, her mommy lets Tiffany go to the playground.”

Tiffany’s mom said the same thing the next Sunday. Then Amber mentioned that her sworn enemy’s mother played. “Mrs. Maxwell does first base, Daddy. Mike says she’s the best player. I don’t really care about that, but I told him you’d be the best.” Amber’s eyes lit up at this point. “While his mommy’s on the field, his daddy watches him on the playground. He could watch me, too.”

Then Mike’s dad made a point of shaking Greg’s hand every Sunday. Now there was a man with a perfect life. He was a dentist. His wife spent her time taking care of the family, organizing every wedding and baby shower the church put on and playing softball.

The second time the minister approached him, Greg could almost hear Rachel say, “Playgrounds—complete with friends—are a wonderful thing for an only child.” Rachel had emphasized over and over that just in case Amy…

Think of her as Amber.

…just in case Amber turned out to be an only child, they had to make sure she did lots of things with friends, kids her age. Outdoor things. Not so much television.

So Greg had joined the team, and even though he hadn’t played since high school, he discovered that the team really needed him.

And Amber really needed him playing on the team. Greg looked over at her again. She was having a blast. She’d had a red Sno-Kone and it was all over her face; Mikey looked like someone had dumped a barrel of cherry juice on him. Tiffany managed to look like a princess.

The inning ended. Greg had a while before his turn at bat. He took his cell phone and a hand towel from his bag and, with Amber in tow, headed to a nearby drinking fountain to wash her face.

“I’m not dirty, Daddy.”

“No,” he agreed. “You’re not dirty, you’re sticky.”

She giggled.

“Why is it,” Greg asked, “that Tiffany can eat a Sno-Kone and not get it all over her?”

“Her Sno-Kone is special. Maybe if you buy me another one, this time mine will be special.”

He should say no but her eyes were glowing, her cheeks were flushed, and she wasn’t suffering.

As he was.

Somehow, in the midst of everything, that brought him to his knees—his daughter was thriving. He handed her a dollar and remembered again why he couldn’t turn himself in: two reasons.

One, Greg didn’t know if he could face the day without Amber. He’d been a good father while Rachel was alive, but he’d put work first. Now Amber came first and he truly knew the challenge and joys of fatherhood. No way was he playing Russian roulette with the foster-care system.

Which took him to reason number two.

No one would watch Amber with the intensity that Greg did. No one. And Greg knew that just to get at him, whoever had killed Rachel wouldn’t hesitate to come after Amber.




FIVE


“The media jumped the gun, excuse the pun, by claiming that Rachel and the security guard were ‘probably’ killed by the same gun,” Burt said over the phone late Friday night. “And I’m guessing you missed the word probably when you heard the story.”

“Most people fail to take note of the word probably,” Greg responded. “Also, most people figure if the news reported it, it’s fact.”

“Until the authorities get their hands on the gun, nothing can be proven. What the authorities do believe is that both Rachel and the security guard were killed by a 9 mm semiautomatic pistol.”

“I didn’t own a 9 mm semiautomatic pistol,” Greg said.

“What the cops know is that you didn’t own a registered gun. They’re not convinced that you didn’t get one off the black market.”

“Motivation?”

“Getting rid of your family.”

“I’m raising my daughter alone! I—”

“Hey, you’re preaching to the choir.”

“What else do you have?”

“You’ll be impressed by what I have, and you should be humbled by what I’ve given. I owe more favors than I can ever begin to repay. Turn your fax on.”

Fifteen minutes later, Burt continued. “Remember, this coroner’s report is incomplete. You know I’m a lot more comfortable with skip traces and surveillance than with all this medical stuff. It shouldn’t take fifteen pages to report the cause of death.”

Greg gripped the fax pages. The coroner’s report. It was fifteen pages long only because it was incomplete, and he didn’t intend to ask how Burt had got hold of it.

There was Rachel’s name, after the word decedent. The date of her death was roughly six months ago. Greg noted the names of both the doctor who pronounced her dead and the homicide detective who was assigned to the case.

“So,” Greg balanced the phone on his shoulder as he turned a page, “they don’t know where she died?”

“They don’t—not according to my source and not according to the coroner’s report—but they’ve ruled out your house and they’ve ruled out the farmhouse.”

Greg choked up. “They identified her from dental records. What? She wasn’t recognizable?”

“Dental records work well when you’re trying to convince a jury. That’s all I’m going to say. Don’t torture yourself. You remember Rachel the way she was when she and Amy stood side by side.

“Don’t let yourself fall apart now,” Burt warned. “We’re finally moving again, and if we’re going to find a light at the end of the tunnel, you’re going to have to point to it. Not me, not the police. Remember, I’m not the brainy one. That’s you. And, remember, the police are not on your side. They think you robbed your own bank, killed an innocent bystander, killed your wife, kidnapped your own—”





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