Found (Lost Town Book Six), page 12
Summer kept her mouth closed, since that was exactly why they’d been sent north.
“I told Durant I might be able to convince the students there’s value in using their minds. Plus, I teach the extracurricular self-defense sessions, which is really why they brought me on,” she said.
“How do we choose our electives?” Carly asked.
“I have a feeling Duck and Ned are standing out there waiting to show you.” Christine stood, crossing her arms. She looked ready to say more, and Summer leaned in expectantly. “I know you don’t like me, and that’s fine. But I am glad to see some familiar faces. We’ve gone through a lot.” She addressed Summer when she spoke. Summer had transported to Earth during a quick Shift in the early days, and she’d lived outside the alien forest where Carmichael had once been. “I’m working on something, but…”
“What kind of something?” Summer asked.
“We’ve had a couple new people added to our population in the last few months, and…” Christine threw her hands in the air. “Look at me, confiding in kids. You’d better go. You don’t want to be late for Mr. Maracin’s history of Arcadia class. He has no problem issuing detention, even for new, hopelessly lost students.”
They walked away, Summer clutching the copy of Canyon.
As promised, Duck was in the hall, while Ned jumped up off the wooden floor. He put an arm around Carly’s shoulders, and she didn’t punch him, which came as a bit of a surprise.
Summer decided to stay positive about the change, and was relieved to have Christine nearby. She’d done a lot of damage, but more recently, she’d proven her loyalty by helping them defeat Aiden, then the aliens from Lithos.
“Let’s stop by the office and grab you a list of electives,” Ned said. “I bet you two would look really good milking cows.”
Summer glared at the boy. “I have a better idea.”
“What’s that?”
“Self-defense.”
6
Having Grover in the JLTV made it feel like a compact car. He occupied the back seat, spreading out in the middle. With his big white hair and thick beard, he looked out of place in the military vehicle.
Logan drove while Amelia kept watch, constantly lifting her scope to examine their surroundings. After a day’s drive, they were nearing their first stop, a waystation where scouts could sleep and restock their dwindling supplies. It was customary to replenish any way you could and not take more than you absolutely needed.
The small cabin was still out of sight, so Logan continued, moving slowly across the unforgiving terrain.
“And then I met Trudy,” Grover said. He’d been talking nonstop for the last two hours, describing every detail of his time on Arcadia. Some of it was fascinating, but most sounded embellished, given the fact he always came out the hero in every story. “She was as quiet as a church mouse, but it wasn’t long before we fell in love.”
Amelia glanced at Logan, who silently lifted his eyebrows, staring straight out the windshield.
“I built our house with my own two hands. Did I mention that?”
“Yes,” Logan said.
“I had a little help, but generally did it alone, working day and night. Tell me about you, Peach,” Grover said.
“There’s not much to say.”
“Nonsense. You’re a grown woman in charge of Lost Town. What’s the story?”
Amelia had prepared a small speech, but it went out the window as he spoke. “You know what… Dad… I am where I am because of you.”
He smiled proudly.
“If you didn’t ditch Mom and leave Earth, I never would have grown up hating you, Mom, and myself.” Anger burned in her chest, and she decided to let it out while they drove in the confines of the JLTV in the middle of rural Arcadia. This was the first time Grover couldn’t run, so she had a captive audience. “I spent years hiding from Mom; then, when I finally escaped, I bounced from one poor relationship to another. Then I joined the Jackson County Sheriff’s Department, and guess what… They were crooked too!”
Grover shrank in his seat, his hands resting on his big knees. “Peach…”
“Don’t call me that.”
Grover’s gaze fell. “I’m sorry.”
“I can’t believe my dad wasn’t my dad,” Logan interjected. “I guess I have you to thank too.”
“How?” Grover asked.
“If you weren’t cheating with my mom, my dad wouldn’t have caught you. When he went missing in a supposed boating accident, I threw myself into work. I never would have created LTC with Isla, and maybe none of us would be on Arcadia.”
Amelia took a breath and rolled the window down. The trip had been smooth until she’d opened her mouth.
“I don’t know what I expected,” Grover said. “You guys just found out you were related, and here I am going on about my life. I married a woman forty years younger than me, and I have two babies. Two! I’m in my seventies!” He started to laugh, the booming sound filling the cab.
Logan cracked a smile. “That’s the universe’s way of retribution.”
“I screwed up. Dot and I were… we met before him. I couldn’t give her what she wanted, and she knew that. Grover Miller was a traveling salesman, not a homebody. I had cities to see and hearts to break.”
“At least you’re honest,” Amelia said.
“It was my fault for stopping at her place when I was near Indiana.”
“You didn’t stop by my house,” she told him.
“That mother of yours was a nightmare. I tried, believe me. Cards, money, telephone calls, but she was full of hatred. I intended on mending our relationship when you were older, but I… chased after Logan, hoping to make that right. Seems I made a mess of everything,” he said.
Amelia wasn’t about to forgive him so easily, but she aimed to let her own irritation go.
Logan slowed when the ground morphed from a grassy field to a patch of dirt. “Are we there?”
Amelia looked with the scope, discovering a cabin as promised. “This is the waystation.”
“Maybe we’ll find a clue as to Dove’s route,” Grover said.
It was nearing the end of the afternoon, and as the seasons moved on, the sunlight dwindled earlier. Amelia heard a river nearby, and spotted it when Logan parked outside the building. It was a quaint cottage, far nicer than she’d pictured. A fishing rod was leaned on the exterior, covered by an awning made of woven branches. The river was a good ten feet across, widening as it snaked in the opposite direction of the cabin.
The scene was lovely. She stretched her legs and walked to the water to stare at the view. There was a spattering of trees, but nothing dense enough to house a nest of Howlers. They were spindly saplings, different than anything near Lost Town. The strange trees reminded Amelia of how little they’d seen of Arcadia, considering the change of landscape only forty miles east of their home.
Grover stood by the cabin, resting a palm on it while he breathed a lungful of fresh outdoor air. “Part of me longs for this kind of life.”
“Being alone?” Logan asked.
“Something like that.”
It was obvious how difficult being attached to a place or person was for Grover. It made Amelia understand her father better to witness it firsthand. She’d never wanted to experience the world by herself, and with Caesar, she was even more grounded. She and Logan were both opposites of their dad, and Amelia surmised that wasn’t too uncommon in families.
“Let’s investigate the waystation and spend the night,” Grover said.
Amelia felt homesick at the mention of sleeping in this remote place. She’d promised Jenny they’d try to track Dove, but had also told Caesar she’d be back in a few days.
The large door was stuck, and Grover used his ample body weight to push it open. He staggered into the dark space and pulled the curtains aside, letting light through the wooden louvers. Dust drifted into the beam of sunlight, and Amelia surveyed the cottage. Wood was stacked in a neat pile by the hearth, with an iron poker beside it. A pot hung above the fireplace, meant for cooking. The table had two chairs, and there was a single one in a cramped living room, complete with a cushioned seat. Three books sat on a bookshelf, and Amelia smiled to see that copies of novels from Earth had wound up in this remote waystation on Arcadia.
“Let’s see what we have here.” Grover stood by the exit, where a blackboard was nailed into the wall. It had a series of initials and what Amelia presumed to be dates.
“This is Dove’s,” Grover said, tapping the latest inscription. “Says he was going to... EoM.”
Logan pressed closer. “Where’s that?”
“It means check the Large Map.” Grover unfolded a piece of paper in his pocket. He slid it onto the table and smoothed the creases with his palm. “There were rumors of a treasure in this region labeled as East of Mountains.”
Amelia saw the open space missing details on the map. She removed her copy of Milton’s journal, comparing the area. His was mostly filled in with small upside-down Vs, but there was something resembling the letter A to the right.
“What kind of treasure? The gemstones you mentioned Quinn found before?” Logan asked.
“Yes.” Grover plucked a stone out of his jacket and held it up. It was rough and had the same vivid green as an emerald.
“You didn’t come for us,” Amelia accused. “You wanted to get in on the treasure hunt.”
The gem vanished into his pocket. “Can’t it be both?”
“This is unbelievable,” Logan said. “I left my wife and child at your house so you could look for gemstones?”
Amelia wanted to choke her dad, but held her arms at her sides instead.
“We’re going home tomorrow,” Logan told them.
“What about Dove?” Grover asked.
Amelia remembered Jenny and how distraught the scout’s wife was. “We’re doing this for Dove, not you. I don’t care about whatever treasure you’re seeking, Grover.”
If he noticed that she used his real name instead of Dad, he didn’t show it. “Yes, of course, for Dove. I’ll get a fire going and start dinner,” Grover said.
“I need some air.” Logan shoved the door, letting it slam against the cabin.
“So do I.” Amelia followed him, leaving their father behind. “That man is so infuriating.”
Logan grabbed the fishing rod and sifted through a wooden box, finding a lure. The bait dangled with three sharp hooks, and he connected it to the line. “I may as well make myself useful.”
They walked to the water, which burned orange as it reflected the setting sun.
Logan dropped the lure into the water and released the line into the current. She squinted, finding shadowy shapes moving in the river along with the flow.
In the distance, the clouds were dark and portentous, making her glad to be out of their range. “There’s a storm to the northwest.”
Logan followed her gaze, nodding. “Glad we’re not in that.”
Amelia had her own storm to deal with, but Grover Miller wouldn’t skirt by and dissipate in the morning.
“Let’s stick together and bring Dove home. And if Grover wants to hunt for gems, he can stay out there for all I care,” Logan said.
“Agreed.”
He jerked the rod back and laughed when it bent at the end. “I caught one!” He reeled it in, moving away from the banks while lifting the fish free of the water. It flopped and struggled until Grover arrived. He stepped on it, and sliced the fish’s neck with a long blade.
They watched their father as he filleted the animal quickly, and held up the remaining meat. “Logan, can you bury that?” He motioned to the head, bones, and offal. “We don’t want any predators snooping around.” Grover stopped by the doors. “Dinner’s ready in twenty minutes, kids.”
“And just like that, we’re ten again.” Amelia looked to the storm, then to the east, where the skies were perfectly serene. “I think I saw a shovel behind the cabin.”
7
“We should have left this morning,” John said.
Instead of departing at daybreak, they’d explored the sawmill more, taking their time to catalogue every item on the premises. Mr. Tucker wanted to ensure they brought the proper equipment to remove, then transport the supplies to Lost Town.
“That’s my fault,” Chester told him. He glanced up while raindrops started to fall. “I thought the storm was heading north, but the wind changed on us.”
John didn’t pay enough attention to Gemma’s warning. Now he’d have to wait until it was finished to venture into the wild on horseback. Butterfly and Trident stood outside, which was a problem in and of itself. “We have to bring them into shelter.”
Chester motioned to the building over, with the collapsed roof.
“Is it safe?”
He shrugged and put his hat on before running into the downpour. “Guess we’ll find out.”
John followed and grabbed Butterfly’s reins. “Come with me, girl.”
The horse snuffled and lowered her head as they walked across the overgrown path to the derelict structure.
“Figured it would be safer, considering there’s a stone foundation.” Mr. Tucker kicked the base, and his steel-toed boot clanged off the surface. He shoved the double doors open, and Trident looked ready to rear onto hind legs, but her handler calmed the beast by speaking gently. “The storm will pass, and we’ll be on the road tomorrow.”
Butterfly hesitated, then walked in after Trident. The collapsed roof lay in rubble on the other side, but this corner was braced with metal beams above them. Plants grew in the open space, and it was obvious why. Rain battered the floor, which was cracked and ratty.
“They’ll be safe in here.” Mr. Tucker went out and returned with a bucket of river water they’d scooped before the rain arrived. The animals took turns drinking, then John left them with a handful of hay.
“What about us?” John asked.
“I’d just as soon stay in the sawmill.”
“That’s where the Biters live,” he said.
“Think we scared the rodents off last night,” Chester told him. “Come on, let’s try to get a fire going.”
The ancient mill was a tinderbox, but John didn’t want to contradict Mr. Tucker. They brought wood in from the pile still dry under the awning and went upstairs. John crept through, using an old corn broom to dust away the cobwebs and spiderwebs alike.
When he was confident the insects were handled, he searched for holes in the walls. John found old nails in a tin can and pounded them into boards, covering any possible rodent access points. The hammer was heavier than anything he sold at the hardware store, and the balance felt off, but it did the job.
Mr. Tucker messed with the wood-burning stove, dismantling the flue with a hefty wrench. “They don’t build them like this anymore.” He shook it out over the loft ledge, and clumps of old ash and soot drifted to the main level. Once it was reassembled, they built a fire and lit it with a match from John’s pack. Chester got a cigarette burning using the flames, before half-closing the iron door.
Outside, the storm grew in intensity, making John grateful for the shelter. The occasional drop fell through the ceiling, but not enough to worry him. Water gushed off the roof, running by the windows in droves.
Chester had their food stores out, and they eyed what remained. The bread was still good, freshly baked by Maya the morning they left. John gnawed on a piece of dried beef while his counterpart made peanut butter sandwiches. He spread it thin to conserve their supply and passed half to John. They saved the canned goods for later. The sticky bites made him wish for a fresh glass of milk to wash them down.
They watched the crackling fire behind the small panes of glass in the stove’s iron door. John occasionally opened it with a pair of ancient work gloves to avoid being burned. He tossed in logs, which instantly caught because of the intense heat.
The room warmed up, and John no longer had to rub his hands together every few minutes. The storm continued to rage, wind howling as it blasted the sawmill’s fractured frame.
“I hope the horses are okay,” John said.
“They live on Arcadia. Birch told us the animals are more used to the inclement weather than the humans.”
Mr. Tucker rolled out his bedding and lay on his back, arms behind his head. They chatted for a bit, until the older man drifted off mid-sentence.
John sat by the fire, then tried to sleep.
Because of the hammering of the rain, and his mind on Lillian Carson, he failed epically. What was he doing? She didn’t seem like a murderer. The first few times they’d slept together were filled with a raw passion, a yearning for something neither of them understood. Gradually, it shifted, until he now believed she might be falling in love. That scared John more than anything, particularly because of her volatile past.
Maybe in a few years, Lillian would truly be part of Lost Town.
John had been stuck on Lithos with her, and it was tough to reconcile that Lillian with the one he woke up to most mornings. Then again, he didn’t feel like the same man either. He was older, stronger, and far more resilient.
An hour passed, and he put another log on the fire. After two hours, John decided to explore the building. He brought the gun belt and checked his revolvers, ensuring they were fully loaded. The last thing he wanted was to encounter a Biter nest and click empty.
With a flashlight in hand, John crept down the rotting stairs, trying not to wake Chester. It was strange thinking of the man by his first name. In John’s heart, he’d always be Mr. Tucker.
John wandered through the sawmill, gazing at the rusted blades. Above, rain bashed into the roof, and wind threatened to tear the building apart. It remained mostly dry, the huge timber beams creaking ever so slightly with the outside pressure.
He eventually figured he needed to sleep for real, and started toward the steps. His foot landed on a pile of wood shavings, and the sound reverberated differently. “What’s this?” John grabbed the corn broom and swept the shavings clear, finding a wooden hatch in the floor. Chains were draped over the handle, and he quietly dragged the links through.
