Lost Contact (The Bridge Sequence Book One) Read online

  Five minutes later, I pulled into a giant chain store a few blocks away, one where you could buy a tent, shoes, and lettuce all in one transaction. I’d always hated this kind of place. I tried to picture my dad shopping somewhere like this, but couldn’t imagine it.

  I kept my head down, careful not to run into anymore familiar faces, and I managed to escape with a bottle of wine, a fresh-baked loaf, and coloring books for the kids. Were they too old for that? I hoped not.

  Beverly’s house was a place I’d never forget, since it was our childhood home, willed to her by Mom. I had no animosity about the inheritance, but I couldn’t believe she’d actually chosen to uproot her family and move into it.

  The sun had set by the time I approached her place, and I paused at the two-way stop signs, contemplating turning around. Instead, I flipped the blinker on and went right, driving the last few blocks faster than I should have so I didn’t change my mind.

  The streetlights were the old kind, with outdated low-pressure sodium lamps, casting an orange glow across the tar-patched street. Massive trees overhung the road, blocking out the night sky, and I parked in front of the house instead of using the driveway. I watched through the living room window, seeing Beverly and Fred inside, bustling around the dining room table. The kids sat on the couch, the lights of the TV flickering over their blank stares.

  With a deep breath, I lifted my paper bag and small suitcase, and strode up the cobblestone sidewalk centering the yard. I remembered Dad putting those in himself. I’d been too young to help much, but I’d stayed with him the entire weekend while he labored, sweating in the summer sun.

  His best friend Clay had come for the second day. Uncle Clay. I hadn’t thought about him in years.

  “You going to come in or admire the pavement for a few more minutes?” Beverly asked from the front door. A golden retriever ran through her legs, barking once before circling me.

  I petted Roger while he sniffed the grocery bag. “Hey, sis. Good to see you.”

  The kids hardly looked up as I set my bags on the old hardwood floors, but Fred entered, wiping his hands on a stained apron before shaking my hand.

  “Something smells wonderful,” I told them, and Beverly’s eyes lit up at the compliment.

  “I didn’t think you’d make it,” she said softly, hugging me. “Come on, kids, say hello to your Uncle Rex.”

  Carson was five, and he sauntered toward me, eyeing me suspiciously. I hadn’t visited since the funeral, and I didn’t blame them for being cautious. I was practically a stranger. “Hey, fella. I brought coloring books.”

  “Thank you,” Edith said, coming in for a hesitant embrace. I patted her back and handed her the goods. She was seven and was a spitting image of Beverly at that age.

  The two ran off, returning to the couch, discarding the books on the coffee table. Beverly shrugged and motioned for me to follow her inside. “I made up Carson’s room for you.”

  My old room. This was too strange. The house didn’t feel the same, yet nothing had changed but the people inside it. The walls were still a tired beige, the cabinets sturdy but worn.

  “I know what you’re thinking. We’re going to do some work on it, but…”

  “It’s too soon,” I said, and she nodded.

  “You always could read my mind. How have you been?” she asked. “Didn’t you take a trip this summer?”

  “I did.”

  Fred opened the oven, and I spied a ham inside. “Where did you go? A relaxing tropical vacation?”

  I glanced at Beverly, and her face grew long. “Don’t tell me you’re still doing that.”

  “Doing what?” Fred asked, setting the roasting pan on two cork boards.

  “Jeez, Rex. You want to end up like Dad did? What the hell are you doing?” Beverly asked, her teeth clenched together. I hadn’t seen her this angry since we were kids.

  “Okay, what’s going on?” Fred asked, stepping between us.

  “He thinks he can track down Dad. Stupid me actually believed he’d grow out of it. You’re dreaming, Rex. He’s gone, and there’s no bringing him home.” Beverly’s shoulders stooped.

  “I’m not trying to bring anyone back from the dead. I just want to know what he was after. Why would he abandon his family? We were kids!” I said it too loudly and leaned against the sink cabinet. “Look at us. Two minutes together and we’re already fighting. Maybe this was a mistake.”

  Fred frowned. “Nonsense. You’re family, and there’s no shame in wanting answers.”

  “Great, take his side,” Beverly said.

  “Side? He’s a grown man… an archaeologist by trade. One needs an inquisitive mind to do something like that. I don’t blame you one bit for being curious about your father. Did you tell him about the box we found?” Fred asked.

  My skin flushed as he spoke. “Box?”

  “I should have told you to forget about that, Fred. Now he’s going to obsess over it until he leaves.”

  I barely heard Beverly’s words. “Where it is?” I asked.

  “Can we discuss this later? Dinner is ready.”

  I glanced at my sister, seeing the girl I used to spend so much time with as a kid. She was still in there somewhere, buried behind twenty years of life, two childbirths, and a job she hated. I let it go. She was right. Whatever box of Dad’s stuff they’d uncovered wasn’t as important as me visiting with my family.

  I walked over to her, pulling her into a real hug, one without pretention or obligation. I held Beverly, her arms wrapping tightly around me, and we laughed at the same time. I kissed the top of her head and let go. “I love you, Bev.”

  “You know I’m only mad because I love you too,” she admitted.

  I pulled the wine from the brown bag. It was the best I could scrounge up at the chain store, and Fred passed me a bottle opener. Soon we were all sitting around the table, the food plated, the wine poured, our hands washed. Beverly had some casual easy listening playing, and it reminded me of our mother. She’d always played music while we ate, something she’d done since I could remember.

  “How’s the new job?” Fred asked.

  “Pretty great. The students are receptive. It’s nice teaching somewhere and being taken seriously. I have a few bright minds that have some potential, and that makes it worth the effort,” I told them. “How about you?”

  Fred took this one, since he wasn’t mid-bite, and he told me about his landscaping company. He’d expanded the previous summer in Springfield, but since they’d relocated here, he commuted two days a week, alternating from his home office in the basement.

  The food was delicious, far better than whatever I would have scavenged, and even the cheap wine went down nicely with their company. The kids asked to be excused, and Fred took a phone call, leaving Beverly and me alone in the kitchen, cleaning up.

  There was something on her mind, and I wanted to know what it was. “Everything okay?”

  She paused, holding a plate of scraps above an organic bin. “It’s tough living here. There are so many memories.”

  “Then sell it and go somewhere else,” I told her.

  She seemed shocked. “Mom wanted me to move in. To stay here with the kids.”

  “Bev, she wanted you to be happy. Plus, she’s not around anymore. No one’s going to be upset if you sell.” Selfishly, I didn’t want to have to return again, if I could help it.

  “Are you sure? Fred was saying the same thing. He puts on a supportive face, but I can tell he never wanted to leave Springfield.” Bev continued cleaning up, and I washed the table. “I’m going there tomorrow, if you want to join me.”

  “Where?”

  “The cemetery,” she replied.

  The last thing I wanted to do was visit a gravestone for my father and mother, but it might be good to put some closure on this chapter of my life. I was done searching for a ghost. He was gone, and I wasn’t going to find him. I needed to accept that he was dead once and for all. “I’m there.”

&
nbsp; Her eyes teared up, and she dabbed at them with the dishtowel.

  “But promise me something,” I said.

  “Anything.”

  “We grab lunch at the diner after.” I smiled, making her laugh.

  “It’s a deal.”

  3

  Carson’s bed was tiny, and my feet draped over the wooden ledge at the end. The pillow was lumpy; the sheets were freshly washed and smelled of fabric softener. His nightlight was the silhouette of a UFO, and I grinned as I stared at the dimly glowing device. When I was his age, I’d been into the same things. He had posters of dinosaurs on his wall, a T-Rex traipsing through a forest. Given my name, it had always been my favorite too.

  The box sat on his desk under the window, and I’d left it there untouched. There were a few leather-bound books inside; a second, smaller box and a couple of miscellaneous shirts, holes in each of them from insects in the attic.

  I’d promised myself I wouldn’t look at the contents until I brought it home with me, but as I stared at the glow-in-the-dark solar system on Carson’s popcorn ceiling, I knew that wasn’t going to happen. The room was far cleaner than mine had ever been, and I climbed from the bed, hoping there weren’t any building blocks on the old carpet to hinder my path. Carson had a rocket-ship-shaped lamp on the desk, and I flicked it on, the orange light spilling onto the box.

  “What did you leave, Dad?” I whispered, taking the first book. It was dark leather, the edges curled from water damage, and had a band wrapped and tied around it, keeping it closed. I attempted to untie the knot but failed. The bind was old, maybe thirty-five years, and I reached for my folded pants on the chair, pulling free the pocketknife I always carried. I slid the blade through the strap and opened the book, seeing my father’s familiar penmanship.

  A thrill coursed through me as I noticed the icon. I knew this one. It had five stars forming a circle, with a streaking dash between them. There was no explanation for it, and I overturned the page.

  Bridge. A single word underlined ten times, the strikes of the pen seeming to be erratic and deep.

  I flipped to the next page, but it was blank. What was the bridge?

  The next book was dated, and I noticed the writing was slightly more faded. I read the first journal entry.

  March 2nd, 1973.

  Clay and I did it. The trip to Mozambique went without a hitch, if you don’t count the twenty-four-hour layover in Cape Town. The locals have been friendlier than we expected, and Clay was right to bring offerings for their village leaders. The bus ride took us as far as it could, and we found them a day’s hike from the last stop. If Hardy’s theory is correct, we’re going to locate the symbol on-site tomorrow. Our hosts prepared us a delicious meal of seafood and piri piri sauce, and Clay is regretting going in for seconds. It’s late now, and we have an early morning, so I’ll be signing off.

  Mozambique. I’d been there twelve years ago, after finding it was one of my father’s many stops during his expeditions, but this was remarkable. The village he referred to here was gone by the time I visited, and I’d found nothing but overgrown trees and a crumbled stone wall.

  I went to the next page.

  March 3rd, 1973

  Clay wanted to abandon the mission. He felt like someone was watching us, but I assured him he was foolish. Perhaps he wasn’t. We found it, though. I don’t know what it means yet. The piece is roughly the size of my palm, hexagonal in shape, and black. The symbol is etched inside the center, not protruding like Hardy had anticipated.

  The locals have asked us to leave the site intact. They went so far as to search us, but I hid the artifact as well as I could. I’m lucky they didn’t peruse below the belt, because I have a feeling they might have done something rash if they knew the truth. Now I feel the same eyes on me as Clay had, and I am regretting coming. This Token could be special, but I fear danger may follow it.

  If Hardy is correct, there will be five more of these. The Bridge awaits.

  There it was again. The Bridge. It was capitalized. It was a name. “The Bridge.” I tested it on my tongue, and the hair on my arms stood. A light flashed in my periphery, and I peered outside, seeing bright stars in the distance, casting their glow from so far away. One of them flickered, and I assumed it was a satellite. I blinked, and it was gone.

  The room I’d grown up in felt cold suddenly, and I was uneasy being here. The walls were closing in on me, and I gaped at the closet, as if expecting the monster I’d imagined in my youth to walk out and bite my toes.

  I shut the book, gathering my pillow and blanket, and quietly crept down the hallway, the old hardwood creaking at the late disturbance.

  I found the couch and knew sleep would evade me for some time.

  ____________

  “Bed too small?” Fred’s voice woke me from a restless sleep, and I opened my blurry eyes to the dull morning light seeping past the living room curtains.

  I groaned, sitting up while rubbing my face. “Something like that.”

  “Look, I’m sorry about Bev last night,” Fred said, sitting on the chair across from me. The kids’ coloring books were on the coffee table, untouched.

  “You have nothing to apologize for. We’re good,” I assured him.

  “I know… she’s been under a lot of stress. Would you believe it took her a month to even sleep one night in her parents’ old bedroom?” Fred asked. He was dressed already, his hair damp from a shower. He’d shaven, and I spotted a tiny piece of tissue stuck to his chin, a red circle in the center of it.

  “Would you want to sleep in your parents’ room?” I asked with a laugh.

  “Not for a second,” Fred said. “Coffee’s on. Can I get you a cup?”

  “Sure. Shower free?” I asked, and he nodded.

  “Kids are in the basement watching cartoons. Bev usually sleeps in when she can,” Fred said, and I nodded in understanding. The Bev I knew was always up before dawn, ready to take on the day. Time heals all wounds, but tends to leave a scar.

  Ten minutes later, I was drying off, dressing in dark jeans, a light blue shirt, and a brown blazer. I left my stubble and styled my hair as formally as I could. I was used to letting it air dry, then attempting a reasonable look befitting a professor of archaeology. With a dash of cologne, my transformation was complete.

  Bev was in the hallway, wearing a bathrobe and drinking a cup of coffee. “Happy Thanksgiving, Rex.”

  “You too. Sleep okay?” I asked her, but her face said it all. She hadn’t.

  “Fine. And you?”

  “Perfect.” We both lied to each other. They were the kind of white lies that meant no harm, but when you added them up, you struggled to recall what the truth was to begin with.

  “Fred’s making bacon and eggs. I’ll be there soon.” And with that, my sister was gone.

  True to her word, I joined Fred and the kids for a delicious breakfast and a thick cup of coffee before Bev came in. She wore a long black dress, a simple gold chain, her hair pinned at the sides. She looked great, and I told her so.

  “Thanksgiving comes once a year.” She smiled, bringing back the young girl I used to know.

  “Are you coming today?” I asked Fred, glancing at the kids.

  He shook his head. “I think this is better suited for you two. We’ll stay home and prep dinner, won’t we?”

  “I don’t want to stuff a turkey’s butt,” Carson said.

  “Then you can remove the gizzard,” Fred joked, and Carson stuck his tongue out.

  “Gross.”

  We all laughed, and I wondered if this was what I was missing out on. I was over forty, single, and living alone in a brownstone.

  “Time to go,” Bev said, still grinning.

  We took my SUV and let the radio fill the silence between us. Outside, it was cold, thin gray clouds threatening to release precipitation that could turn to snow. We listened to a local forecast saying the same prediction, and it switched to the scheduled program. Usually, Thanksgiving Day would ha
ve nothing but pre-recorded programming, with the news automated on the national holiday, so I was surprised to hear the familiar voice mentioning the date.

  “Welcome back to a special live edition of Across This Great Nation with Bill McReary this beautiful Thanksgiving Thursday. We’re discussing the possibility of life from other worlds, and what that might mean for humans if we established contact.

  “We’ve been studying the stars forever, and many argue there is significant proof of visitations to the ancient civilizations on earth. Have we been visited, and when? My first guest is…”

  “What are you listening to?” Bev asked after turning the radio off.

  “The news. Marcus mentioned they found a mysterious object near Pluto yesterday. I guess it’s bringing the crazies out of the woodwork,” I told her.

  “You don’t believe in this crap, do you?” she asked, her tone friendly rather than confrontational.

  “Are you saying you don’t?”

  “Aliens? Why would I? There’s no proof, and there never will be. Because we’re truly alone,” she said.

  “Isn’t that a little far-fetched?” I asked her. I’d studied every ancient culture and still didn’t feel like I had any concrete answers.

  “More of a leap than aliens visiting the Mayans?”

  I drove further, the quiet town’s streets all but empty on a holiday at ten in the morning. The cemetery was north, and we came upon our old high school. We talked about our teachers for a moment, and I kept driving past the football field, toward the older part of town. The lots grew larger, and soon we were near the golf course. It was closed for the year, and I continued until the merge for the highway. The road swerved left, and I followed it as it turned to gravel, leading to the cemetery.

  Snow started to fall the second we crossed Sleepy Grove Cemetery’s boundary, almost like an omen. A white blanket for a new start, or a reminder of how cold and dark death truly was. I didn’t know which one I preferred.