By the time I reached Colorado Springs, it was eleven o’clock in the morning and the snow was finally starting to let up.
I had to stop at another gas station for directions, but soon I was back on the road and headed for the Apple Store. It seemed foolish to go to such lengths, but I had to be sure. Any father would. I could call, but there was a chance the phone numbers I had memorized were out of service. And if they weren’t, there was a chance the people who came after me might be listening in to the phone calls.
Eventually I’d have to head east, toward New York. The best way to do that was driving straight east. Instead, I’d driven north for nearly five hours. Out of my way, maybe, but I didn’t want to take any expected routes. I had to assume the people who came after me had other people out there. People who would soon learn what had happened to their friends, if they hadn’t already figured it out. They’d be looking for me. Again, being predictable was not the best option right now.
When I walked inside, an employee in a blue shirt smiled and said hello and asked if there was anything she could help me with.
I hesitated, taking in the computers spread out around the place, people at all the tables handling devices. I returned her smile and shook my head, told her I was just looking and continued toward the computers.
They were much bigger than I remembered computers being, as least in terms of their screen size. They were also much thinner and compact. The mouse wasn’t even connected with a wire. At first I didn’t think it would work, but when I touched it, the arrow on the screen moved. Okay, that was a start. But now what? All these images and pictures confused me. Just how did I get to the Internet?
A young boy, no older than twelve years old, stood at the computer beside me. He moved the mouse around and typed on the keyboard like he was a pro.
“Excuse me.”
I lowered my voice for my next question, suddenly embarrassed.
“How do I get to the Internet?”
He turned his head slowly, frowned at me.
“What?”
“It may seem silly, but I haven’t used a computer like this before.”
He looked around, maybe searching for his parents.
“Is this a joke?”
“It’s no joke. I haven’t used a computer in years.”
He turned then, and I saw his T-shirt. He wore jeans and a parka, so much of the T-shirt was hidden, but it was what was on his chest that drew my attention and made me catch my breath.
The boy asked, “Are you okay?”
I blinked, looked back up at him, and nodded quickly.
“Yes, I’m fine. Just the perils of being old, I guess. Now do you think you can help me?”
He started toward me, and I looked again at his T-shirt. It was mostly black, except for a gray circle on the chest with a capital T in red in the center.
“What?”
There was caution in the boy’s eyes now. He looked around once again, this time no doubt searching for his parents. They might be watching us now. How would any parent in his or her own right mind leave their child alone like this? But this was how the world was now, I thought, and mentally kicked myself for sounding like Darrell.
“Your T-shirt. It caught my attention, is all.”
He beamed down at it.
“Yeah, it’s a Temple T-shirt.”
“A Temple T-shirt.”
Nodding his head now, excitement in his voice.
“Yeah, Temple. You’ve heard of Temple, right? He’s amazing!”
People were watching us now. Or maybe I was being paranoid. People were all around us, but they were mostly focused on the devices. Where were this boy’s parents?
I cleared my throat.
“Interesting. So the Internet …”
“Yeah, here.”
The boy touched the mouse and the arrow on the screen moved, clicked an icon, and suddenly a window appeared.
“There you go.”
He started to turn away.
“If I want to find something, what do I need to do?”
The boy gave me that cautious look again. He glanced around the store once more.
“Are you sure this isn’t some kind of joke?”
“Please.”
He thought it over for a couple long seconds, then sighed.
“What is it you want to find?”
“Not what—who. Two people. How do I do that?”
“What are their names?”
“Excuse me?”
“Their names.”
The boy’s fingers now hovered above the keyboard.
“What’s the first one?”
“Aisha Shepherd. Assuming she didn’t get married.”
He typed the name into the computer, smacked a button, and suddenly the screen was full of words and pictures.
“Whoa. She’s pretty.”
Yes, she was. The very first picture was a headshot, my daughter smiling at something past the camera. The last time I’d seen her she was in her early twenties. Now she was in her early forties, but time hadn’t changed her much at all. She was beautiful.
“Looks like she’s pretty important.”
The boy scanned some of the text on the screen.
“She runs some kind of foundation, it says here.”
“Is she okay?”
“Huh?”
I paused a moment, thinking how to properly word the question.
“Are there any recent news articles about her?”
The boy moved the mouse again, typed some more, then shrugged.
“Yeah, it says here she’s hosting some kind of gala soon.”
“But that’s it?”
The boy gave me a sidelong glance.
“Mister, what are you looking for exactly?”
I wasn’t sure. That was the problem.
“Can you search another name?”
“Sure.”
The boy’s fingers hovered over the keyboard again, waiting.
“James Shepherd.”
The boy typed and smacked that same button again.
“It looks like there’s a couple James Shepherds.”
“What do you mean?”
The boy tapped the screen.
“A writer, a lawyer, a former rugby player. Which one are you looking for?”
None of them, actually.
“I’m thinking of a different James Shepherd.”
“Then you need to be more specific.”
“Can you search for a James Shepherd in New York City?”
“What’s the time frame?”
“I’m sorry?”
“The search parameters. Like, how far back do you want the search to go?”
Good question. I still wasn’t sure what it was I was looking for.
When I didn’t answer immediately, the boy spoke.
“How about I make it a week.”
He moved the mouse again, typed some more, and suddenly more text filled the screen.
The boy’s mouth fell open.
“That’s not good. I hope you’re looking for a different James Shepherd.”
“Brian?”
A middle-aged woman stood a few yards away. Clearly the boy’s mother, she had a concerned look on her face.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, Mom. I was just helping this guy out.”
“Don’t say guy. It’s disrespectful.”
“This … gentleman.”
“Your son was very helpful.”
I said it with a smile, trying to relieve the tension, but it didn’t seem to work. The woman motioned the boy toward the front of the store.
“Brian, let’s go.”
Brian looked at me, shrugged, then started away. I called thank you to him, and he waved back, but then his mother grabbed his arm and pulled him forward.
I turned back to the computer. I stared at the text on the screen. The first thing that came up was a news article. It may have been a long time since I’d last used a computer, but I was not a complete novice. I’d watched how the boy interacted with the computer, and I moved the mouse now, clicking it to change the screen. The full news article came up. As I read the text, my stomach began to churn.
According to the article, police were called Saturday evening to a disturbance at a home in Crown Heights. When the officers arrived, the door was broken open. They entered and found a woman and two children dead. The details of their deaths had still not been released. The police had issued a statement that they were currently looking for James Shepherd, the husband and father. James had been missing since Saturday, police said. While they had not stated that James was a suspect, they did wish to speak with him immediately.
There wasn’t much there, but it was still enough to cause my world to tilt and sway and pitch forward. I wanted to sit down. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to do something other than just stand there under all the bright lights around all these cheerful people playing with their toys.
But what could I do? Not much right now. And quite honestly, I didn’t even know what all was going on. There wasn’t much information in the article, but what was there was unsettling.
Someone had murdered my daughter-in-law and grandchildren.
And my son—who the rest of the world knew only as Temple—was missing.