Tristan tossed and turned on the sofa, rose to check the house periodically, and walked the grounds outside. He almost fell into their pool, which had a stiff cover over it, thankfully. Occasionally, he heard what sounded like a fox or a coyote, definitely owls and crickets. What he didn’t hear was that one sound in particular that he was trying to listen for, and for that, he was grateful.
After a few hours, he went out again and up to Avery’s apartment to make sure nobody was messing around up there, either. It was empty. He checked each room. Then he brewed another coffee to help him stay awake and sat on the arm of the sofa that was the same color leather as her parents’ sofas. From this position, he could see a good portion of the property. The house, a lot of the yard spaces, the driveway, or part of it, and some of the woods. He could even see past their house, behind it which led into an open pasture, probably fifty acres or so.
He rose and opened a window, pushing it all the way up. It was a nice night, probably hovering near sixty. It was supposed to be hot tomorrow, maybe the last of their Indian summer. This was a good position, though, her living room. He could hear if someone came down the lane, see most of the property, and detect movement in the woods.
Tristan remained there for over an hour before closing the window again and setting his mug in the sink. He checked the rooms again, paused in her bedroom to look at family photos on her dresser. She was always laughing shyly or smiling demurely in every single one. At his house, she’d asked about his own family photos. He had two. One with his parents, which was awful. His mother had angered his drunk father the night before, and he’d hit her. To compensate, she’d applied heavy makeup to cover her black eye. It was still visible. The other one was of him and a foster family, the last one, who was nice. Some of the ones before them sucked as much as his own parents. Neither photo was he smiling like Avery Andersson in hers. Her pure, innocent joy for life radiated from her eyes. Her childhood was so unlike his in every conceivable way.
Another photo caught his attention. It was Avery for sure probably around the age of twelve or so, with two of her equally fair-haired siblings, and two other boys, who were clearly not brothers. They were both tall, gangly, and had much darker hair. She’d labeled them as Alex and Elijah. They were in a barn with their arms all looped around each other’s shoulders as if they were buddies. She had her head leaning on “Alex’s” shoulder, though. Tristan didn’t like the kid already.
“What the hell?” he asked himself angrily and slammed the picture frame back down on the dresser.
He left the room and checked her bathroom, which he used and washed his hands. His eyes trailed over her belongings in the bathroom from her electric toothbrush, to a hairbrush, and glass containers holding cotton balls and cotton swabs. She was neat and orderly. Except for the discarded clothing on the bathroom floor. A hanging garment on the back of the linen closet door caught his attention. Not because it was anything special but because there was a note stuck to it with her calligraphy style writing.
Dry clean as soon as possible—Mark touched this
It took him a second to figure it out. But when it clicked, Tristan wanted to punch something. The asshole from the hospital. She was grossed out and wanted her skirt dry-cleaned because that prick at the hospital had touched her ass in this blue pencil skirt, which wasn’t a micro-mini like some chicks wore. It was more conservative, looked expensive, probably came to just above her knees. Mark better not have done more than just grab her ass. Tristan was already planning a visit to the hospital to have a little chat with Mark Crane. She’d slipped and told him the man’s last name. Now he had a first, so he shouldn’t be too hard to find.
Tristan turned and almost stepped on more clothing. It was her bra, a gray and lacy thing with more than just the two shoulder straps. There were other strings that must’ve crossed her breasts, too. Matching lace panties were discarded on the floor next to it. It was certainly a sexy little number, not something he would’ve thought she’d wear. He cleared his throat and looked away. Then he caught sight of more. In the shower hung a black bra, silky and lacy. He exited the bathroom and went back into the bedroom. On the floor, another bra greeted him. This one he’d missed earlier. It was pale peach with little embroidered purple flowers on it and also made of all lace. On her bed were piles of sorted laundry she probably was going to put away tonight. Most of it was shirts and khaki slacks and more damned cardigans. But one pile was her underthings. Bras and panties and nighties in various shades and materials. Nothing vanilla. Nothing plain. A lot of it skimpy, lace, satin, silk, and delicious like she was dressing for a man who would be seeing it all. Outwardly, she dressed like she belonged on a brochure for hiking trails, but Avery Andersson, good girl, had a lot of naughty fucking lingerie hiding under those drab garments. And he wanted to see her in it. Good Lord.
He shut off the lights and left her apartment. That line of thought was out of the question. Adjusting himself in his pants, he hurried down the hill to the house and locked the door again. After doing another quick search of the house, he laid on the leather sofa with only his knife for protecting the whole family. It didn’t feel like much, but at least he had that.
Forcing his eyes closed, the only images he could see were those of Avery standing in front of him in that black silky short set for sleeping, her long tan legs glowing in the dim lighting. He groaned and mentally berated himself. His eyes popped open. Pinching the bridge of his nose to clear his head, he closed his eyes again. It seemed to work. The images were gone. Unfortunately, he then started imagining Avery Andersson in those lace delicates hanging in her shower and on the floor of her bathroom. It was a long night. It was about to get longer.
No sooner did he close his eyes, was his nose waking him to some pretty wonderful smells. And sounds.
“Shh,” someone whispered. “Don’t wake Sergeant Driscoll.”
It was Avery. He could tell her voice. It was a little husky but small. Tristan threw an arm over his forehead and just laid there, slowly waking to the sounds of her house.
“Scheisse, Ephraim! Get your fudging bird outta’ here!” a girl yelled.
“Miss Kaia, do not swear. Not even in German, young lady,” Avery scolded, making Tristan smile. She sure did step right into the role of mother. “Ephraim, please take Mr. Gray to the atrium. We don’t want him to start carrying on and wake Sergeant Driscoll. And you all better be on good behavior today, too. He’s our guest.”
“Why’s he here, Avery?” a little one asked.
“Well, he’s here to help us until Daddy comes home, okay? Have good manners. Be a good boy, okay?”
“Sure. I think his tattoos are cool,” the little guy remarked, making Tristan smile again.
“No, they are most certainly not, young man. God didn’t put you on this earth to mark your body like that. Now, go brush your teeth and get dressed for the day.”
Tristan heard a bird squawk loudly, then the pitter patter of tiny bare feet hitting the hardwood floors at a fast pace. He figured they didn’t sleep in late too often in this house. Maybe that’s why Avery wanted to move out. She just hadn’t gotten far.
He rose, stretched, and staggered into the kitchen. The whole house was filled with the smell of bacon. His stomach responded accordingly. Other parts of him responded to seeing Avery first thing.
“Oh, good morning!” Avery said all chipper and lightness and smiling. A little blonde boy was clinging to her leg and staring at him with caution in his big blue eyes. “This is Finnegan. Finn, this is Sergeant Driscoll.”
“Just Tristan,” he corrected.
“Hello, sir,” the tiny dude said. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
That surprised Tristan. He sure was formal for being so obviously scared of him. He also spoke clearly and with good diction for being a tiny tyke.
“Yeah, you too.”
She smiled brightly and asked, “Coffee?”
“Yeah, sure. Sounds good,” he said as she slid his mug across the counter to him.
“Pancakes will be ready soon,” she told him. “You’re welcome to use the guest suite to freshen up. I laid a fresh shirt back there for you on the bench in the bathroom if you’d like.”
“Um…thanks,” he said, taking his coffee and leaving down the hall. The guest bed was unmade and rumpled where she’d slept on the left side. He always slept on the right. Tristan fought down the urge to press his hand to the pillow where she’d laid her head. In the bathroom, he had to fight down an even stronger urge to pick up her discarded black, silky nightclothes and run the soft material through his fingers.
Tristan stared at himself in the mirror, glared at himself was more accurate, as he rested his hands on either side of the sink and leaned his weight into them.
“What the fuck are you doing here, man?” he asked his reflection and got a deeper scowl. Right. Protecting a woman who couldn’t seem to stop ending up in positions where her life was in peril.
Then he looked down and discovered a collection of items on the counter. A razor, sample sizes of toothbrush and toothpaste, shaving cream, men’s deodorant, hotel-sized bottles of shampoo and soap. He chuffed. She’d thought of everything. Almost. She hadn’t thought of throwing him out, hadn’t even considered that yet. She should. He wasn’t the sort of person who should be around a girl like her, a family like hers, a body like hers.
He used the products, cleaned up, shaved his beard down to stubble, and brushed his teeth. There was even a tiny travel-sized bottle of mouthwash. Then he turned to look for the clean t-shirt. He picked it up.
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he said, holding out the baby blue long-sleeved polo shirt with the tags still on it.
Beggars couldn’t be choosers or something like that, so he pulled it on and immediately felt like a loser. It was a little snug. Shoving the sleeves up to his elbows, he strode back to the kitchen, the scent propelling him along.
“Need some help?” he offered in the kitchen. Avery slid past him with a heaping plate of bacon and sausage links. “Grab the eggs?”
He turned where she was pointing with her spatula behind him and found a platter full of scrambled eggs. “Got it.”
Following her to the table, he was surprised at how many kids were there seated already. Another tray full of pancakes was on the table, and a girl brought a pitcher of orange juice to the table last. Avery told him to sit at the head of the table in a chair, the kids sat on the benches on either side of the long table, and Avery took the other captain’s chair at the other end. She bowed her head, they followed suit, and she said a quick prayer for God to watch over her family, especially the sick ones, and her father, and to bring him home safely. Then she made sure to thank Him for the food and for the blessings in each of their lives. And then she thanked Him for Tristan and for all his help. That made him squirm in his seat. He sure as hell wasn’t a blessing, not to anyone.
Then it got a lot louder. Kids all talked at once, food trays were passed, juice and milk were poured.
“Hi, I’m Kaia,” said the girl beside him with long, messy dark blonde hair. She poked her hand in his space, and he shook it and nodded. Then she thumbed to her left. “This is Ephraim.”
“Hello, sir,” Ephraim greeted with the same good manners.
“You’ve already met Finn,” Avery said, indicating the little guy beside her. “Finn, eat your eggs.”
“I don’t like eggs,” he complained.
“Doesn’t matter. Eat them anyway. They’re good for you,” she said.
“When is Mommy coming home?” Finn asked, which cause Avery’s nervous pale eyes to jump to Tristan’s.
“Soon, okay? She’s with Cyrus and the girls.”
“Where’s Abraham? I want Abraham,” Finn whined slightly.
“He’ll be home soon, too,” she explained gently, careful of his feelings. “He’s with Mommy.”
“Where’s Dad, Avery?” Ephraim asked.
Tristan figured the kid was around fourteen or fifteen. He was tall, nearly as tall as him if he were to guess. The boy last night, Abraham, seemed like he was probably sixteen or seventeen. But Kaia actually looked that old, too. Maybe they were twins. He remembered Dr. Andersson telling him that she had six children of her own and two who were fostered and adopted, but he didn’t know any of them.
“He’s in Bulgaria. I expect him to call soon. I left him a message last night to call as soon as possible. Don’t worry, he’ll call.”
“Can we swim today?” Kaia asked.
“Maybe,” she said. “We’ll see if it gets warm enough. You’ll have to turn on the heat to it. First, I want everyone to do their chores just like if Mom were here. We don’t want her to come home to a messy house. Bring me your laundry, and I’ll get some done today. But Tristan and I have some work to do, okay? So, I expect you guys to be well-behaved and look after Finn, too.”
They nodded and agreed.
“Hey, since Sergeant Driscoll is here, could we play airsoft later?” Finn asked.
“Um…” Avery stammered and shook her head as if she were embarrassed.
“Aww, man!” Ephraim complained. “Do you want to, sir? It’s really fun.”
“Airsoft, huh? I’m in if Avery’s in,” he taunted, getting a surprised look from her. “We need to do some work together first.”
“Cool!” Ephraim shouted and tucked his arm close and pumped his fist as if he won a prize.
They finished breakfast, and he helped carry plates and cups to the kitchen where the kids automatically began cleaning up. It was like a well-run Army battalion. Even the little dude started scraping dishes. There was a step stool near the one sink, probably just for him.
“Come with me, Tristan,” Avery implored and led him up the stairs off of the living room to her parents’ suite. She went through a set of pocket doors at the one end of the room and into a richly appointed and masculine office, obviously her father’s. There was an L-shaped desk, a large leather office chair on wheels, a leather sofa in a darker color than the first-floor living room furniture, and artwork on the burgundy walls. Another set of French doors flanked by six-foot glass panels on either side of them led out onto a small deck that had a nice view of the backyard and pool area. “This is my father’s office,” she explained. “We’re not really supposed to be in here messing around, but I figured we could use his office for a while. It’ll be quiet.”
She slid the doors behind him closed, which brought with them an immediate silence. Then she crossed the small room and opened the French doors, which actually folded backward all the way, clicked into place in the glass panels, and the whole unit slid like pocket doors into a recessed panel until the whole wall opened up to the outdoors.
“I thought we could open these since it’s so warm out this morning.”
“Sure,” he said, trying not to gawk with obvious amazement at the ingenuity and craftsmanship of their home. Or gawk at her standing in the streaming sunlight behind her.
Next, she unplugged a laptop and carried it over to the sofa and sat. Then she patted the sofa seat next to her as music came on. He sent her a questioning look.
“Oh, that’s the children,” she said of the classical music on the sound system.
“The children? They listen to this?”
“Of course,” she replied as he sat. “Why wouldn’t they?”
“Most kids I know listen to rap.”
She smiled gently. “That’s not allowed in this house. My parents prefer we listen to the classics.”
He chuckled once. “Classics in my realm is Van Halen.”
She smiled. “I know who they were. Eddie Van Halen. My father much admired his talent. He just doesn’t approve of music like that, says it doesn’t enrich the soul or encourage learning.”
“With this many kids in one house, I’d want something slightly calmer, too,” he joked. “You all go listening to wild music, you might start breakin’ shit.”
She laughed, the sound more adorable than he would’ve thought. “I never thought of that before. You’re probably right. The boys do enough damage without wild music.”
Avery turned on the laptop and started searching for flu information.
“It seems so early in the fall season to have such high flu activity,” she said. “We don’t usually get the first big numbers in the flu until late December.”
“How do you know that?”
She sent him a lopsided grin and a jaunty tilt of her head. “I have a lot of younger siblings.”
He smirked. “Yeah, right. Makes sense.”
“Most of this seems bogus,” she said as her phone buzzed. “I’m trying the CDC site.”
It listed flu stats and strains out there but certainly didn’t seem like it was reporting what they were seeing. The site had the numbers of cases of flu A or B in the United States, but it wasn’t showing the weird strains that sheriff’s deputy was talking about.
“Doesn’t make sense,” he remarked. “We know something’s going on. It can’t just be this county.”
“No, it’s not. We already know that a flu has killed a lot of people in Africa. I mean, I work in the next county north mostly. I’ve seen things up there, too, in the city.”
He regarded her keenly. “What do you mean?”
She paused and looked at Tristan before biting the left side of her lower her lip. Then her phone rang in the form of violin music. Of course. His ring tone was Queen’s Another One Bites the Dust. It was meant to symbolize how many people he and his unit had taken out that would’ve caused harm to innocent people, especially Americans. In light of current events, he probably needed to change it.
“Oh, that’s my dad! Here, take this.”
She shoved the laptop into his hands and stood.
“You can keep looking while I talk to him,” she offered and went out onto the deck.
Tristan did as she said, but he could still hear her talking to her father.
“Hey, Dad,” she greeted and paused a few moments as she paced and pressed her hand to the back of her bare neck where her hair was pulled up. “Yes, they’re sick. Have you talked to Mom yet?” Another pause. “At the Cleveland Clinic in Canton. Yes, Mom got them a room. They’re all sharing one. I know. This is crazy, right?” Avery paused for a lot longer, and Tristan watched her pace more. Then she was putting her fingertips to her forehead as if she were stressed. “What? I didn’t catch that. Dad? Hey, are you feeling okay?”
Tristan rose and went to her but stood back a way to give her space.
“Dad? Why are you coughing so hard?”
Her eyes jumped to his nervously. She nodded, then said, “Yes, I will. Get some rest. I love you, too.”
She disconnected and looked at Tristan with fear.
“What’s going on?” he asked, stepping closer as she leaned her hip against the railing of the deck.
“My father is sick,” she said and held her hand over her mouth. Tears were brimming in her eyes. “He said it’s nothing, but it didn’t sound like nothing. He sounded really sick.”
“It’s okay. People get sick. He travels a lot.”
She shook her head. “Not him. He’s never sick. What if he’s got this flu? What if he can’t get home? What…”
“Hey,” he said and touched her shoulder. “Hey, don’t worry, okay? Don’t worry until there’s something to worry about.”
She choked back the tears he knew she was about to let loose. Good. He wasn’t so great with this sort of thing. Women were delicate and fragile, sensitive. This one was no exception, but he didn’t want her to cry. It bothered him when she did that.
“Is he going to take a flight home?” he asked, trying to keep her brain from dwelling on things that would make her cry.
“Yes, he’s looking for a flight now. He said he’ll try to get on one later today.”
“Well, that’s good, right?”
She sniffed and nodded.
“Come on,” he encouraged and moved his hand away. “Let’s see what we can find out.”
He led her to the sofa again and sat, handing her the computer to keep her mind off of her problems.
“Look for a dark site,” he instructed.
“Like banned stuff?”
He nodded, “Yeah, and alternative news source sites. The kind that gets them blacklisted on the web.”
She nodded, obviously not sure where to search first. Her long fingers hovered above the keyboard.
“Try ‘what they don’t want you to know dot com.’ I know that one’s always got some weird conspiracy theories and stuff going on.”
The site didn’t come up. A few others he knew also gave a white screen with a message of ‘website no longer available’.
“Interesting,” he commented.
His phone buzzed a text alert, so he took it out of his jeans pocket.
“It’s Spencer,” he told her. “The cops came by today and told him and Renee that the situation has been handled and that everything was fine now.”
“Wait, is he still at Renee’s? Did he spend the night?”
“I would assume so. She said her parents weren’t around. For the same reason I stayed here, I figure he stayed there. Or…well, I guess for whatever reason they had.”
She blushed and looked down at the laptop.
“But that’s a bullshit story,” he said, considering the text. “Those cops are covering something up. You don’t just get to kill civies and get away with it. Not without a trial.”
“Civies?”
“Oh, yeah, right. Sorry. Civilians,” he explained patiently and sent a text back to his friend that he thought that whole situation stunk of lies. Spencer agreed.
“Am I a civie?” she asked as if it were a bad thing.
He offered a lopsided grin. “Oh, yeah.”
“Hm,” she pouted.
Tristan shoved his sleeves back to his elbows, a nervous habit when he was stressed. He glanced at her to continue, but she was staring at his forearms. Then, she cleared her voice. “I should’ve been arrested. The police department should’ve sent detectives to study the crime scene and forensic investigators and a crime lab. This…none of this shit makes sense.”
“No, I agree with you,” she said and clicked on the link for the website.
“Avery, what did you mean you saw stuff in the city? What’d you see? And where?”
She frowned as if she didn’t want to talk about it, so he inclined his head, insinuating she should.
“It was probably nothing, but the day I had my…problem with Mr. Crane at the hospital, I hit the wrong button on the elevator by accident because I was…flustered,” she said and paused like she was embarrassed. It pissed Tristan off even more because he knew she wasn’t the kind of person to accidentally hit the wrong elevator button unless she was really upset and not thinking clearly. “I ended up near the Emergency Room instead of where I needed to be to get to the parking deck. I heard a nurse arguing with a police officer, a State Highway Patrolman. He wanted to have the man he’d arrested seen for a medical condition, and she blatantly told him no. She said something to the effect of the hospital not treating that kind in the hospital anymore, that he should take the person to jail instead. They argued about it, about who was supposed to be in charge of the person. She said those kinds kept getting loose and hurting other patients, that they couldn’t treat those ones anymore, those ones as if she were referring to a specific type of ill person. I thought it was strange. It’s a hospital. They treat everyone who’s sick. She said they sent out a memo about it. I don’t know what that meant, either. A memo. To who?”
She paused, and he considered what she’d just said. It was a lot to take in. If she understood the meaning behind the conversation, then Avery had overheard a deep state conspiracy. Secretive memos. Keeping information about a major health crisis under wraps. Not informing the public. It all stunk to high heaven.
“And then…” she said quietly and stopped herself. “We should just look some of this stuff up, okay?”
“Then what?” he urged, to which she shook her head.
“It’s probably nothing.”
He stared her down. “Then you don’t have to worry. Just tell me, and I’ll judge for myself.”
She took a deep breath and blew it out shakily before beginning. “A police officer came up to me and told me I should go out the doors, walk outside around the building to the parking deck instead of following the arrows inside leading to the right elevators I needed to take. He said it wasn’t a good idea for me to be in there.”
“That was probably a smart idea. I’m glad he told you that,” he said with relief. At least some of the cops out there were telling people the truth, or even just warning them away from danger zones. One glance at her and Tristan could tell that something else was wrong. “What else happened that you’re not telling me?”
She shook her head, biting her lower lip again. “It was really…I don’t know how to describe it. I’ve never been to a psychiatric ward or known anyone who was mentally unstable. But, as I was walking down the hospital sidewalk, I peeked in one of the windows. I think it might’ve been in the Emergency Room or a wing right off of the Emergency room. And this man was hitting his head against the window. Really hard, Tristan. I mean, he was making his head bleed. His hands were tied or handcuffed behind his back. He just kept slamming his head into the window. I think he was angry with me for something.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so. I think that’s just the way some of them are. Did he seem sick?”
She nodded jerkily, remembering. “Yes, he seemed very sick. His eyes were bloodshot, and he was screaming, but I couldn’t hear him through the glass.” Avery shivered.
“Bloodshot. I think that’s gonna be one of the links in this.”
“And the police officer,” she said, touching her forehead. “He…he said something else…”
“What was it?”
“I’m trying to remember,” she said. “He called the man the hospital didn’t want to take by something. The nurse said they didn’t take any of those kinds anymore. They sent the memo. I can’t recall. It bothered me, though.”
“What did he call him?”
She snapped her thin fingers, remembering. “Crawler. He called him a crawler.”
Her soft, husky voice, coupled with the awful description of what a cop- most of whom were fairly level-headed- had called the person, sent a chill up his spine. Crawler. Now they had their first search word.