The Vanishing Gary Brown (booksvooks TXT) 📖

could get his bearings and make his way back to his room. The searing pain in his leg reminded him this was not an option. He resigned himself to the fact that the journey back to his room would have to be slow and circuitous considering his impeded mobility. He looked back into the room and spied a discarded chair leg on the floor several feet away. He tested the door to see if the rusty hinge would squeak if challenged by an outside breeze were it left ajar for a few seconds. The door immediately failed the test. But the chair leg had given him an idea. It was a gamble at best, but one he was willing to try. He tried the door again. This time it held in silence. Virgil dropped to his hands and knees and crawled outside. He picked up the chair leg, stood up, leaned against the doorframe, and listened. The sounds of the night had fallen eerily silent. Fallon was not waiting for him after all and had gone to join the others, or he had taken cover and was simply waiting for the right moment to make his presence known, most likely from the business end of his gun.

Virgil knew he had no options. He had to assume he was still a target.

He tested the weight of the chair leg, then tossed it with as much strength as he could muster into the heavy fog. He listened as it tumbled end over end across the hard-packed ground. Thump, thump… thump, thump.

A cricket stirred, then another. Soon the cicadas resumed their melodic chirping. The night had accepted the interruption without concern.

Virgil steeled himself, peered around the corner, then shuffle-stepped out of the storeroom. He expected Fallon to spring up out of the fog, gun trained on him, delighted in having successfully cornered and trapped his wounded quarry.

But there was no sign of Fallon.

Virgil took immediate advantage of the opportunity, stepped off the wooden landing, and moved as quickly as he could across the grounds towards the perimeter of the field. The thick fog minimized his visibility. Needles of pain seized his leg with each step and urged him to stop, but he could not. He had to put as much distance between himself and Fallon as he could. He needed to make it back to his room, his family.

He had walked this route dozens of times before under better circumstances, his path made clear by the brilliant glow of the moon. Behind him, the voices from Communion Hall faded the further he travelled along the well-trodden path. At last, he arrived at the broken asphalt road which led back to his building. He was not far now. Beyond the remaining several hundred yards of worn tarmac lay safety and security in the form of his wife and child. Virgil stopped for a moment to rest. The pain in his leg was getting worse. He struggled down the road against his body’s objection. Panic-stricken thoughts raced through his mind, challenged his concentration. Perhaps Fallon had known it was him, seen him hiding behind the rolls of fabric when he had knelt down to examine the droplets of blood in the sawdust. Perhaps he was simply waiting for the right opportunity to make him pay for being in the worst place at the worst possible time. Starbursts of pain exploded from his leg. My God, Virgil thought as he winced away the blinding light show. Maybe I’m not the target. That’s why he never shot me when I stepped out of the room. He’s going after my family. He’ll use them to get to me.

Deep from within, a renewed strength bubbled up and erupted through his body like pent up lava bleeding through a fissure.

Blessing…

Virgil picked up his pace and pushed on through the fog-blessed night.

Sky…

Fallon would never get the chance to hurt his family. He would kill him first.

Of that much he was certain.

40

DRENCHED IN THE milk-white cast of the halogen security lights, Claire and Martin strolled through the gardens at the back of the estate. The sweet smell of bougainvillea blossoms gave fragrance to the still night air. Claire stopped to appreciate their aromatic gifts, raised a cluster of the brilliantly colored flowers in her hands, breathed in their mellow perfume.

“The white ones were Melanie’s favorite,” Martin said. “They grew all over the place at our house. Occasionally, I’d take her out back, and we’d pick a gigantic bouquet for Anne.” He laughed. “She was too young to pronounce them by their proper name, so she called them boogums. Every time I go for a walk out here, they remind me of her.”

He reached out and smoothed the delicate petals Claire held in her hands. “God, I miss that little girl so much.”

Claire replied with quiet introspection and a smile in her voice “When Amanda and I were young, she would haul me out of bed every Saturday morning to take her to the Hampton Botanical Gardens. By the time I’d showered, she’d already packed our lunches and was ready to go. She looked forward to that trip each weekend like it was the most important thing in the world. Hampton’s collection of plants and flowers was one of the largest I’d ever seen: Orchids, lilies, rhododendron, sunflowers, desert cactus, ferns… you name it. And, of course, many varieties of bougainvillea like you have here: Barbara Karst, California Gold, Mary Palmer’s Enchantment, Orange King, Manila Red. To Amanda, those gardens were like a candy store. It wouldn’t have surprised me if one day she announced she was going to become a botanist. Plants, especially flowers, intrigued her. When she was around them, she was in her element. Her ability to appreciate the beauty in what so many of us take for granted never failed to amaze me. I’ll always remember that about her for as long as I live.”

“Don’t speak about her in the past tense, Claire,” Martin said. “She’s not gone.