Читать книгу Fugitive Family - Pamela Tracy - Страница 11

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.