Echoes From the Moon (The Token Book One), page 7
Waylen held the rear door for her, and Hunt stepped into the yard. “What about you? Why do you stay?”
“It’s a job, and… I’ve always wanted to help.”
Waylen had seen the type a few times, and appreciated her more for it. She’d probably grown up poor in the area, wishing to improve her town. Unfortunately, he gave her three years before she realized it was fruitless and she pulled the plug, seeking a transfer to a larger city with opportunities of advancement.
The yard was fenced with chain-link, but the gate was wide open, the lock hanging loose. Eleven vehicles were parked within it, all of them in rough shape, most rusted and tireless—except the one truck linked to the crime.
He pulled a pair of gloves from his pocket and slipped into them, snapping the vinyl on his wrists. Hunt looked surprised to see him using the protective barrier, and that didn’t give him much hope for the continuity of their crime scene investigation. Waylen opened the passenger door and checked the glove box. An old map, a user manual, and a multi-screwdriver. Not much to go by there. He searched under the seats, finding nothing of note. Whoever had stolen this truck had cleaned it as they dumped it.
“Can you show me where they ditched it?” he asked.
“Sure. Hop in.” Deputy Hunt led him to her car, and he narrowed his gaze, pointing at his rental.
“Do you mind if I drive?”
“No. Just let me lock up.” She went to the doors and mumbled into the radio on her shoulder. The conversation was quiet, but Waylen could tell the man on the other side of the discussion wasn’t expecting to hear that an FBI agent had arrived this early on a weekend morning. “The sheriff would like to meet with you after.”
“I’d like that as well,” he said. Truthfully, he wanted to get to Peter Gunn’s house and check out the scene. He had to tour this region and paint a picture of what happened last week.
Waylen signaled despite being the only guy on the road out here, and noticed the grass was in desperate need of being cut. “How’s the town office?”
“Gull Creek is reliant on tourism, and since the bigger lakes have built a resort on the other side of Campbelltown, we’ve struggled a bit. Our campsites get busy enough, but that doesn’t bring in a lot of income for the local businesses.”
“The kid at the boat rental store seemed to think they were doing all right.”
“Chet? He’s stoned half the time. And he’s always trying to get cash for the units, since his dad is letting him take the reins.”
“He mentioned it,” Waylen said.
He continued through the town, nearing a humble market where a young woman placed fresh flowers on an outdoor display. “Who’s that?” he asked. The diner was next to it, with the sheriff’s car out front, the paint faded from the sun.
“Her name’s Leigh. We went to high school together. Never really got along, but it wasn’t my fault. She stuck to herself, mostly.”
Leigh’s gaze tracked their car as Waylen slowly rolled down the main street.
“Her dad almost died. Hell, it would have been better if he had.”
“Why do you say that?”
“His wife, Mrs. Kettle, is a real cow. She runs the store. Leigh was adopted when they were in their forties, and it’s no wonder she ran away at seventeen before graduating.”
Waylen let the deputy talk, not really interested in the sordid details of the locals, but he wanted Hunt to feel comfortable with him, so he listened. “Hunt’s not your first name, I assume.”
“Dear lord, I hope not. It’s Gail.”
“Where do I go from here?” He followed her directions, and they exited Gull Creek, heading on a narrow road toward the lake. The ground was elevated in this area, and as he crested a hill, Waylen spied the water through the tree cover. It glimmered with the sunlight, and the street dropped again, the view becoming spoiled by dense spruces. Waylen opened the window, inhaling the scent of nature.
“You like it out here?”
“I’m usually working in an office, poring over financial reports and filling out paperwork, so yeah, this is nice.”
Deputy Hunt shrugged her shoulders. “Summer is my least favorite season. Bugs are bigger than bats, and everything seems sticky all the time. People get drunker, more violent. Tourists make litter, fires erupt from cigarettes when it gets too dry. I prefer the winter myself. Warmth of the hearth, stockings on the mantel.”
“I can appreciate that,” he said, and meant it. Waylen usually spent his Christmases alone in Atlanta, but had once been on a case in Montana during the holiday season, and he’d witnessed snow for the first time on the day of. He’d never forget it.
“Sorry, I’m not usually so chatty. We can turn here.” She pointed to the right, and he slowed, pulling into a service access road. “It was there.”
“In the open?”
She nodded.
Waylen parked and got out. “Which direction was it facing?”
Deputy Hunt paused and tapped her chin with a plain fingernail. He noticed the ends were chewed. “That way.”
Forward, toward the access gate.
“And no one has reported a stolen vehicle since?”
“Nope.”
Waylen pictured the murderer ditching the truck after shooting Commander Gunn. Why here? He stared at the land in the distance, and at the road leading to Gull Creek. Loon Lake lay a few miles to the east in the other direction. “He wouldn’t have walked away in the dark.”
“I suppose not.”
“Then he had a ride. Someone picked him up,” Waylen whispered.
“No one’s thought about that,” she said. “At least, not that I’ve heard.”
Waylen knew it had to be more than one person from the beginning. There was too much ground to cover. Were there just this pair? Could they have reached DC in the span of two days to steal crates from the NASA collection at the hangar?
Waylen texted Martina, hoping she’d offer some support in the case, or put it on someone who could make the time. He needed to know if tickets were bought from the nearest airport, with DC as the destination.
The pieces of the puzzle were slowly shifting into place, and Waylen thought he might get somewhere in rural Wyoming after all. “Can you show me the house?”
The radio beeped, and Deputy Hunt lifted a finger. She stepped toward the field and consulted her boss in private before returning. “Detective Desjardins will be at the diner in ten. The sheriff asked to speak with you both.”
Waylen nodded. The visit to Gunn’s house would have to wait.
10
For the first time since her breakup, Lauren feels the weight of her existence vanish with the morning mist. She’s meant for so much more than fetching coffees at the office and cleaning up after her slob of a husband. Lauren smiles, entering the greenhouse, inhaling the scent of damp soil and herbs.
Rory paused, looking at the computer screen, and her chest filled with relief. She finally had something. It was just an idea, an inkling of the bigger picture, but the premise was there. Madeline had been a version of herself in View from the Heavens, and Lauren was born from her trauma with Kevin in Boston. She could let it out on paper for the world to experience, and hopefully grow as a result.
The clock on the bottom left corner of the laptop told Rory that it was almost lunch, meaning another extravagant dining experience with her parents. Seven pages. That was better than her usual, even at the peak of her last novel, and with a quick word count check, Rory read that she’d done over two thousand words.
Her mother’s knock came as no surprise, and Kathy Swanson entered with a smile. “I heard you clicking away. That’s good news, I hope?”
“You’re seriously out in the hallway listening to me type? Can’t you be like those other WASPs and drink rosé and discuss summer beach reads at the park?” Rory closed the laptop and had a rush of satisfaction. She was an author, no longer a mere budding writer.
Even after the success of her debut novel, Rory never felt worthy of the literary circles. Maybe with the follow-up, she could banish the self-doubt once and for all. This story was more grounded. Her agent swore that View from the Heavens deserved a film or TV option, but the budget would be too high, considering the space modules and scenes on the Moon. This new project might fit the broader readership she needed to reach the next level.
“Your father and I thought we could go out for lunch today.”
Rory should have known that by the fancy outfit her mother wore. Her dad was at the front doors, his suit jacket draped over his arm, and he held the exit wide for the ladies to go through first.
“Do we have to leave the house?” Rory asked. “I’m on a roll and wouldn’t mind continuing this afternoon.”
“Pumpkin, you don’t want to burn out,” her dad said.
“I’ve been writing for three hours.” And eighty hours staring at the screen in the past month, randomly hitting keys until she deemed the prose bad enough to delete. “I don’t have to worry about that.”
“It’ll be good for you,” Kathy told her, holding the convertible’s door open for her to climb in. Rory glanced at her own attire, realizing she wasn’t as smartly dressed as her parents.
The moment the car started and her father drove off the property, Rory had a sinking feeling. “You’re not setting a trap here, are you? Bring unsuspecting Rory to the club to be surprised by Greg the doctor or something?”
“Nonsense, dear. I wouldn’t have let you leave looking like that,” her mother said offhandedly.
Rory grew even more self-conscious as the wind blew through her hair, ruffling it. They pulled up to the private club, which catered to Woodstock and the surrounding areas. It was a couple of miles from town, down a stretch of estate properties larger than their own.
Rory inhaled and smelled old money. She reached into her purse and grabbed her cell phone, marking that sensation down for her book.
“What are you doing?” her mom asked.
“Making a note.”
“Your head is always elsewhere, isn’t it?” Her father tossed the keys to a young valet, who smiled as Rory climbed from the backseat.
They strolled the cobblestone pathway to the restaurant. Rory heard someone swearing, and glanced at the tennis courts, finding two middle-aged women with a pair of tennis instructors, working on their backhands.
Rory almost got clipped by a golf cart, and the guy muttered an apology through a cloud of cigar smoke. They didn’t slow or check on her.
Her parents stalked ahead, everyone waving to them like they were royalty. Rory trailed behind like an invisible servant, wondering why she’d never grown used to the lifestyle. She’d ventured off from college with the aspiration of doing life on her own merits. Her roommate had come from nothing, and was the most eloquent, intelligent woman Rory had ever met. Karli had inspired Rory to forgo the condo her father offered to purchase in Boston for her and Kevin. Because of that, she’d struggled with two jobs while finishing the manuscript.
Now, walking through this idyllic setting, she wondered if it wouldn’t have just been easier to accept their wealth and use it to her advantage. How much farther ahead could she be if she’d stayed at home in those early years, writing rather than serving as a barista at a coffee shop, and a cashier at the local bookstore?
That hadn’t lasted long, because Kevin Heffernan couldn’t dare tell people at parties that his girlfriend was scraping the bottom of the societal employment pool. Kevin wasn’t much better, but he wouldn’t admit it. No, Rory had to be this fledging authorial star, with multiple publishers interested in her manuscript. That was the story, but maybe there was something to Kevin’s assurance that it would happen. Because she’d finished the book, found an agent, and had sold the manuscript for a hundred thousand dollars.
Life-changing money.
Which was all gone, because of Kevin.
She glanced at the tall trees, limbs hanging low with plush green leaves. Flowers were everywhere; bright azaleas sat in pots beside orange and red daylilies. Rory took a deep breath, desperately not wanting to think about Kevin. He could rot in hell.
“After you,” her dad said, waving her into the clubhouse restaurant. It was Saturday, meaning the place was packed, but her father, as usual, had a standing reservation, and they were ushered to the window seat overlooking the eighteenth green. Older couples stood in the shade outside, sipping drinks and laughing about something as they compared score cards.
“Mom, why don’t you pick up golf?”
“It’s not for me,” Kathy answered, slinging her purse over her chair. “Ask your father.”
“She came once and refused to take lessons. We played eight holes, and I almost got hit twice, even though I stood behind her.” He laughed.
Rory tried to imagine her mother being bad at anything, but couldn’t.
They ordered drinks: her mom white wine, her dad a bourbon, and Rory requested a cup of coffee, which got a glare from her parents, like it was a sin to not have booze on a Saturday lunch at the club. People would talk. Newspapers would be notified.
Rory requested the fish, and after the server left, her father removed his glasses and set them on the table. She knew that look. “Oh God, are you two getting a divorce?” she groaned.
Kathy and Oscar locked gazes and broke out in matching smiles. “Divorced? Never!”
“Then what’s this all about?” she asked.
“We’ve been talking…” Kathy started.
“Great.”
“Maybe it’s time you put that degree to good use,” she said.
Rory froze.
“You went to an Ivy League school, darling. What if this book stuff isn’t meant to happen? You already lost the advance from the first one, and you have nothing to your name, do you?” Kathy tried to give her a supportive nod, but all Rory heard was the condemnation behind the words.
Rory bridled in her seat, but before she could offer a rebuttal, the drinks arrived. She poured cream into the cup, slowly stirring it into a caramel color. When they were alone again, she leaned closer. “Kevin spent my money. He wasted it all on poor investments. He treated me horribly and stole from our accounts. I’m a talented author. I’ve won awards and have a contract on another—”
“But you’re not writing it,” Kathy interjected.
“Because I’m here at the stupid club when I should be working. You won’t stop dragging me around town like I’m your little doll.” Rory raised her voice, but settled down when a few tables watched their interaction. “I can do this. I just need to focus.”
“That’s fine, we’ll leave you—”
“I’m going to take the guest house,” Rory said, shocking herself. The idea came from nowhere.
“It’s filled with… stuff.” Oscar sipped his bourbon, a large spherical ice cube clinking on the crystal glassware.
“I’ll move it to the second guest room,” she said.
“Okay.” Oscar clapped his hands gently. “If that’s all it takes, but promise us one thing.”
“Sure,” she relented.
“If this fails, you’ll get a job. You can stay with us for as long as you like while you get on your feet, and the offer to buy that condo in the city still stands. But it doesn’t have to be Boston. What about Montpelier? You’ll be much closer. It’s only an hour's drive.”
Rory tried to defuse her anger, because they meant well, but this conversation proved they didn’t fully believe in her abilities. “That’s very kind of you.” She didn’t verbally commit, but her parents seemed to take it as some version of an agreement.
The rest of the lunch was spent discussing a planned renovation on the library in their house, and what Oscar would do when he retired. Rory listened with one ear, her other hearing tidbits of exchanges from around the club. She spied older men with younger wives, flaunting smooth foreheads and pouty lips. Everywhere she looked, there were diamond tennis bracelets, Rolex watches, designer bags, and expensive champagne being trickled into stemmed glasses. She suddenly felt very out of her element.
Her father signed off on the tab, and they walked through the gardens on the way to the car. Oscar wandered off, chatting to some friends, and her mom came closer. “Honey, we didn’t mean to ambush you.”
“It’s okay.”
“I do have confidence you’ll continue being successful,” she said.
Rory didn’t respond, waiting for an elaboration.
“Your father just wants you to have a safe and stable life. You’re almost thirty, and he believes you should have something to fall back on if this book thing doesn’t take off.” Her mother smiled and took her hands. “He loves you and only desires the best for his princess.”
“I appreciate it,” she said. Truth was, Rory couldn’t really complain. They’d received her return home with open arms, and the offer to buy her a condo when she was ready.
When they made it home, Rory had the desire to keep writing, but she opted to investigate the guest house. Oscar gave her the key, and she went alone while her parents took a leisurely stroll before cocktail hour at their swimming pool. They were creatures of habit.
It was three o’clock when she stood at the small home’s front door, the shutters closed. She glanced up at the pair of dormers from the second floor and tested the handle, which was locked. Rory dangled the key, smiling as she slid it in. The door clicked, and Rory stepped into her new temporary home.
11
“Pick up, pick up,” he muttered. She didn’t.
Silas paced the living room, his gaze eventually falling on the spot where Grandpa Gunn had been murdered. He couldn’t stick around any longer. Leigh had gone dark, not responding to him.
Silas hadn’t slept for more than two hours, and those had been riddled with dreams of another place. He tossed and turned on the bed, his lungs aching, his vision blurring. When he woke, he was fine. Twice, he almost touched the slender piece of metal again, but the memories were so fresh that they held him at bay.
The time on his phone showed 1:12 PM, so it was after three on the East Coast. He dialed his father’s number, and it rang once before the familiar gruff voice answered.
