What Follows After Page 8

  “They better not be in there. They know they’re not supposed to—”

  “They’re probably not,” Scott said. “I just thought if they were, it might be better if I go down there first. And believe me, if they are down there, they’ll be severely punished. You have my word on that.”

  “Well,” Weldon said, “I suppose that’s okay. You know your way?”

  “I think so. It’s in the backyard, right? In that hill beside the pool?”

  “That’s it.” He leaned against the fender to let Scott pass by. “You said you’re an engineer, right?”

  “That’s right. I work at GE.”

  “Engineers travel a lot?”

  “Some do, why?”

  “It’s just I never see you around anymore. Used to see you all the time. Thought maybe you became one of those, you know, traveling salesmen.”

  “I did change jobs,” Scott said, “but I stayed within the company.” That’s about all he was going to say on the subject. He’d been promoted recently, but it didn’t involve more travel. Weldon was just fishing for gossip. Turning around, Scott headed toward the backyard. The boxes were fairly heavy, sounded like they were full of cans. He followed the walkway around the side of the house, then set the boxes down for a moment to open the wooden gate that led to the pool area.

  There was the pool to the left and the rising grassy mound to the right. The sand dune had been re-formed into a makeshift fallout shelter. As he got closer, Scott saw the door that led down a short set of cement stairs. He set the boxes beside it. Should he knock or just walk right in?

  He hoped they were there, even at the cost of sitting through Weldon’s angry outburst.

  18

  They were making good time heading toward Daytona Beach. At the moment, and for at least twelve more miles, Vic and his partner Nate were sailing down a section of the new interstate highway called I-95. It wasn’t completed yet, not even close. The plan was for it to stretch all the way from Maine to Miami someday.

  Today, well . . . even twelve miles was something. No red lights, no traffic jams, no getting stuck behind someone driving half the speed limit and being unable to pass. Just a straight shot traveling at eighty miles an hour (an FBI perk). Then it was off the interstate near Flagler and back on US-1 for the rest of the journey. Vic adjusted his rearview mirror to check on the boy in the backseat. Colt hadn’t said a word the last fifteen minutes.

  He wasn’t asleep, just sitting there staring out the window.

  The last thing he’d said was a question, asking if he could roll the window down a few inches to get some fresh air. Nate’s cigarette smoke had been gathering like a small cloud in the backseat. Vic had quit last year, to make his wife happy. He’d been after Nate to quit the last few months. Partly to be free of the temptation but also to be free of the smell, especially in close quarters. It had never bothered him all the years he smoked, but now he couldn’t stand it.

  “Did you ever smoke those?” Nate said.

  Vic looked to where Nate was pointing out the window. It was a billboard for Tareyton cigarettes showing a bald guy with a fake black eye, smiling and smoking. Next to him, the caption read “Tareyton smokers would rather fight than switch.”

  “I tried ’em once,” Nate said. “Hated ’em. I’d fight anybody who tried to make me switch.” He smiled at his own clever play on words. Nate smoked Camels, nothing fancy. No high-tech carbon filters, no menthol. The same cigarette he’d smoked since they started working together during World War II.

  “My mom smokes Tareytons,” Colt said.

  Vic looked back at him through the rearview mirror. Colt was still looking out the window.

  “She just started smoking this year, after my dad left,” he said. “I hate it. I used to sit close to her on the couch watching TV, but now I can’t. The smoke from her cigarette always finds me. It can be going in any direction, but as soon as I sit down, it turns and comes right after me. Gets me right in the eyes.” He let out a sigh. “So now we can’t sit together.”

  “I know what you mean, Colt,” Vic said. “Nate’s cigarettes do that to me sometimes.”

  Nate turned around, looked at Colt over his shoulder. “But kid, we never cuddle on the couch.”

  Colt laughed out loud. Vic almost did. What a revolting thought. Vic wondered if he could keep the boy talking. “When did your folks split up?”

  “They haven’t split up,” Colt said. “They’re just separated, that’s what my mom said.”

  “I know. So when did they separate?”

  “Around New Year’s. First my mom moved out, then a few days later she came back and my dad moved out. And he’s been gone ever since.”

  “You mind me asking what you hoped to gain by running away?”

  Colt wasn’t smiling anymore. “It was a dumb idea. I know that now. But I thought it might work.”

  “What do you mean . . . work?” Vic said.

  “I thought it might get my parents back together.” He was looking out the window again. “They’ve been hiding it all this time from everyone. And making us lie and pretend everything is fine. Lying’s a sin, you know. A big one. One of the Ten Commandments, even.”

  “I know.”

  “So’s the seventh commandment,” Nate added. “Know which one that is, kid?”

  “Nate,” Vic scolded. “Never mind, Colt.”

  “What?” Nate said.

  “You know what.” Thou shalt not commit adultery. That was the commandment Nate was referring to. They had both already figured out that was probably the reason why Colt’s parents had split up. Usually was. And seeing as it happened right after New Year’s, Vic guessed Colt’s mom had caught his dad cheating on her over the holidays.

  “That’s all right,” Colt said. “I don’t know all the commandments, not all ten of them. And I don’t remember them all in order.”

  “That’s a good thing to work on, Colt. Memorizing the Ten Commandments. It’ll keep you out of lots of trouble.” Vic still remembered them from when he was a kid in Sunday school. He’d never figured Nate to be one who’d remember them, though. “You ever go to church? Your folks ever take you?”

  “We used to go most of the time when my parents were together. We still go sometimes with just my mom, but not every Sunday. Sometimes she’s too tired. That’s what she says anyway.”

  “So how did you think getting your aunt and uncle in Savannah involved would help your parents get back together?”

  “I don’t know,” Colt said. “I thought maybe the shock of us running away would get them to start paying attention to us. Maybe they’d listen if other adults talked to them. They sure won’t listen when I try, either one of them. They say things like it’s too complicated, or I just wouldn’t understand, or maybe I’ll understand when I’m older. Sometimes they say they just don’t want to talk about it, and they look away like . . . end of discussion. But I know what they’re really saying is they don’t want to talk about it to me, ’cause I’m a kid.”

  “That’s gotta be hard,” Vic said.

  “It is . . . hard.”

  Vic could hear his voice breaking up.

  “I do understand, a little, why they want to hide it,” Colt continued. “I see how people treat you different when you’re divorced, like there’s something wrong with you. Not just adults, but kids do it too. There’s only one kid in my whole class whose folks are divorced, and everybody treats him different. He’s always getting into fights. People say he steals from stores. Some parents won’t even let their kids play with him. I don’t want to be like that kid. Why should I get punished because of something my parents did?”

  Vic wanted to keep asking Colt more and deeper questions before they reached Daytona. Kids often just didn’t know better and would answer a lot more honestly than adults. Once Colt’s parents were in the picture, honest information would be a lot harder to come by. People who had been living a lie for ten months were all about hiding things, and they’d p
robably become very skilled at making up phony answers to curious questions.

  But he had to be careful. Colt was in a vulnerable state right now, and he didn’t want to exploit that. Especially if this thing turned sour and they weren’t able to find his little brother alive, or at all.

  19

  Scott had left Mr. Weldon’s property fifteen minutes ago, after searching his fallout shelter. There was no evidence Colt and Timmy had ever been there. Had they tried, they would have soon been caught by Weldon anyway. Scott had to sit through another of Weldon’s ten-minute tirades citing the many evil intentions of those “nasty commie scumbags.”

  Once again, he’d proclaimed that President Kennedy would be declaring war on the Russians tonight, saying that was the real reason he had blocked off time on all three networks. Scott didn’t argue, partly because he wasn’t sure Weldon was wrong on that point, but mostly because he wanted the conversation to end as quickly as possible.

  Scott got out of his car after pulling up to a 7-Eleven at the corner of A1A. He’d come there to use the telephone booth outside. Of course, there was a phone at the house, and it was only four doors down from Weldon’s. But Gina was there, and he didn’t want her to overhear his conversation. It would just make her upset. She’d start laying into him about calling work at a time like this. How could he even consider such a thing? He was always climbing the corporate ladder of success. Never satisfied with the status quo. “Your job, that’s all you ever talk about, your job.” His family, always getting the leftovers.

  Scott walked up and got inside the phone booth, closed the door.

  Gina didn’t understand. He was doing all this for her, her and the boys. Not for himself. It had always been for them. That’s what it took to get ahead these days. He hadn’t been doing anything more than every other man at GE. She hadn’t worked a single day outside the home since the day they got married, up until ten months ago when she kicked him out.

  And what was she now? Some clerk at a midsized insurance firm, still mostly dependent on his income. She could never understand the pressure he was under at a company like GE, working on the most sophisticated technology being developed anywhere in the world. They were trying to get a man on the moon before this decade was out. That’s what the president said. How could she understand anything about the kind of work he did, what it took to pull off something like that?

  He dialed his boss’s number from memory, shaking his head. He couldn’t think of one other husband at work who had to put up with a wife like this. Wives were supposed to be supportive of their husbands, to stay at home, to cook and clean, take care of the kids, be there with dinner ready when he got home, or keep it warm in the oven if he had to come home late.

  Okay, in the last few years that had happened a lot. But he wasn’t out gallivanting around, chasing women or spending happy hour with the boys at the bar. He was working, and working hard.

  “Hello, Mr. Finch’s office, Marianne speaking. How can I help you?”

  “Hey, Marianne, it’s Scott, Scott Harrison. Just checking in. I told Mr. Finch I’d call this afternoon.”

  “Oh, Mr. Harrison. Have you found your boys yet? Mr. Finch told me what happened.”

  “Not yet. They’ll probably turn up soon. Either by dinner or before it gets dark.”

  “I hope so. You want to speak with him?”

  “Please.”

  “I’ll put you right through.”

  A few moments later, “Hey, Scott, Finch here. How did you make out? The boys safe and sound?”

  “Not yet, Mr. Finch. Still looking for them.” He knew Finch wouldn’t like the sound of that.

  “Hmm, that’s not good. I hope you find them soon. Really counting on you to supervise the setup of that big shindig down at the Castaway Beach Motel, our part of it anyway. The lockdown on the main plant shouldn’t affect things going on at the Castaway. You know there’s over a thousand coming to this thing now. Scientists and CEOs and engineers from all over the US. They’ve even decided to open it to the public here in Daytona, sort of a goodwill gesture. Let them hear all about our big plans for the future.”

  “I know, sir. I’m sorry. I thought we would have found them by now. Mark Mitchell’s there now. I briefed him on everything this morning before I left.”

  “Mitchell’s good, but he’s not you. This is your baby, Scott. A lot of good PR can come out of this, if it’s done right. It’s done wrong, the opposite can happen.”

  “I know. I know, sir.”

  “Can you at least stop in before the day’s out? Make sure everything’s on track for tomorrow?”

  Scott looked at his watch. “Sure, I can do that.”

  “Great. Let me know if I need to get involved.”

  “You know I will,” Scott said. “But I’m sure everything will be fine. I’ve been working on this for weeks.”

  He hung up and got back in his car, decided he better stop in at the house and see Gina before he stopped at the Castaway and checked in on Mitchell’s progress.

  Hopefully, she’d be there and so would the boys, and they’d have a chat about a fitting punishment for pulling such a stunt and giving them all a scare.

  Where was he? Scott was never there when she needed him.

  Gina felt like she was losing her mind. She was sick with worry. Where could her little Timmy be? She would cry some more, but she was all cried out. She looked at the telephone again, willing it to ring. She stared at the phone every few seconds, hoping another call would come and erase the terror of that first call: the one from her sister saying Timmy had been stolen.

  The FBI agent had told her some things to get ready to assist them in their search. She mentioned they had already given the best photo of Timmy to Officer Franklin. The FBI agent—she had forgotten his name—said not to worry, he’d get the photo himself, or have the Daytona police wire a copy to the FBI.

  Since the phone refused to ring, Gina walked outside again and down the sidewalk, trying to get a glimpse of Scott’s car. Where could he be? He said he was just going to drive around the neighborhood some more, looking for the boys. How long could that take?

  No sign of him. She walked back in the house and let herself drop onto the sofa. How could they expect her to just sit here by the telephone? Did they really think the kidnappers would call with ransom demands? If they did, she could show them a stack of bills. The money in their bank account wouldn’t even cover them. If they wanted Scott’s family’s money, why didn’t they kidnap one of them? The kidnappers obviously hadn’t done their homework. Scott was sort of the black sheep of the Harrison clan. Why kidnap her little Timmy? Scott’s brothers were the wealthy ones; they followed their father into the banking business. Why hadn’t they taken one of their kids?

  She sat up and buried her face in her hands. What was she saying? She didn’t want that either. She loved Colt and Timmy’s cousins.

  She soon discovered she had at least a few more tears as she heard a car pulling into the driveway.

  20

  As Scott turned the corner onto his street, his stomach involuntarily cringed. He’d skipped lunch, but it wasn’t that. “Please let the boys be here,” he said aloud. He looked down the road and picked out their place, just in time to see Gina walk inside the front door.

  She was alone.

  A few moments later, he pulled into the driveway. He sat in the car, staring at the house, not sure what to think or what to do. A man was supposed to protect his wife and children. It was his job. No, it was more than that; being the protector was part of a man’s calling, something ordained by God. His father had always said that.

  But Gina had made it impossible.

  He got out of the car and walked toward the house. He’d just have to face whatever came and make the best of it. After opening the door, the first thing he noticed was the sound of Gina crying.

  Not good.

  She was sitting on the edge of the sofa, her head buried in her hands. As soon as she sa
w him, she stood and ran into his arms. “Oh, Scott . . .” was all she managed to get out before she collapsed into his chest and sobbed even harder.

  He put his arms around her and held her tight. It was the first time they had touched this way in almost a year. He stroked her head gently and patted her back. Was she releasing some pent-up anxiety that had built up over the day, or was there some terrible new development? When appropriate, he asked, “What’s wrong, Gina? Is there any news?”

  She pulled back and looked up at him. Total heartbreak in her eyes. Before she spoke, he braced for something awful.

  “He’s gone, Scott,” she blurted out. “Timmy’s gone. Somebody took him. A strange man stole him and took him away on a bus.” Tears flowed down her face again.

  For a moment, her words did not penetrate. Scott was still mostly focused on comforting her. But when he realized what she said, his legs became weak.

  About ten minutes later, Scott and Gina were sitting beside each other on the couch. Scott had a need to know everything she had learned so far, and she had a need to say it. But neither one wanted to utter the words. They were just too awful.

  Scott decided to take the lead. First, he blew his nose. He had done some crying too. He couldn’t stop it. “So Colt is definitely fine?”

  Gina nodded. “He should be here with the FBI agents in about thirty minutes.”

  “These are the same agents you’ve already talked to?”

  “I only talked to one of them,” she said. “His name was Hammer or Hamilton. I don’t remember.”

  “And they’re the ones who found Colt?”

  “No. I don’t think anyone found him.” She explained the rest of the story, as much as she knew.

  “Colt knows better than to leave Timmy by himself. What was he thinking?”

  “Don’t go there, Scott. The FBI agent said he already feels terrible about all this. You’re only going to make it worse if you start down that road.”