Lost Contact (The Bridge Sequence Book One) Read online

  “You come out here often?” I asked Bev, and she broke her stare through the windshield.

  “I did, at the start. But now I feel more of Mom at home than I ever could here. You know how I get with this kind of thing. This is a grave. It’s not Mom… or Dad. It’s a symbol, but they’re not really at this cemetery,” Bev said, and I nodded along, agreeing with the sentiment.

  I held nothing against people visiting their loved ones, bringing flowers and talking to gravestones. It just wasn’t how I operated. “I hate that I feel guilty.”

  “For what?” Bev asked as I drove to the parking lot. I would never forget where their graves were located. I used to visit Dad’s site every week when I was a little boy.

  “I should have been here at the end.”

  “Mom knew how much you loved her,” Bev said, as if that one phrase would atone for my sins.

  “Sure.” I parked, not quite ready to leave the warmth of the car. I hadn’t added a jacket over my blazer and was quickly regretting my decision.

  Bev rested a hand on mine. “Remember how angry she used to get with you?”

  “Which time?” I laughed.

  “She always told you to stay away from this place, but you’d hop on your bike and come regardless. I used to think you were so brave, going to a cemetery by yourself. I was scared. As stupid as it sounds, I still am, a little.” Bev’s gaze drifted to the falling snow, and I finally built up the nerve to exit the SUV.

  “Mom was mad because she never believed Dad was dead,” I told Bev.

  “She did at the end,” she replied.

  This was news to me. “Is that so?”

  “She had some pretty frank conversations with me about him. She admitted there was a time she considered that he’d run off to start a new family somewhere, but that didn’t add up because of Clayton Belvedere’s disappearance too.” Bev started forward, her flats grinding against the parking lot gravel.

  Clay. I tried to recall the man but struggled. They’d been thick as thieves, constantly setting out on adventures, but I couldn’t really picture him. He’d had a daughter a couple years younger than me, a tiny blonde thing. What had she looked like? I’d just been a little boy, and my memories were foggy at best. Even my recollections of Dad were glimpses of emotions and feelings, rather than distinct images.

  “What else?” I asked as we strolled down the stone walkway, heading for our parents’ resting spot.

  “In the end, she thinks he either got into trouble with some locals, sticking his nose where it didn’t belong, or the pair of them were trapped underground, left to die. Even if their remains had been found, no one would ever send word,” she said.

  “Did she finally tell you where he went… that last trip?” I asked.

  Bev shook her head, and I smiled as a snowflake landed on the bridge of her nose. Bridge. The name from the journal. I needed to read more of it, to discover who this Hardy was, and what Dad was truly searching for. I’d been ready to give it all up, but I doubted I could, given this new information.

  “Rex, you have that look again. I thought you were done,” she said, her voice full of disappointment.

  “I’m not sure I can stop, Bev.” I paused, trying to familiarize myself with where I was. The eagle statue stood twenty yards away, and I swept my gaze toward the angel guarding her quadrant. That was where I would start. “What if he was right?”

  “About what? Aliens?” she asked, unable to suppress her disbelief.

  “Yeah. What if it’s true?” I asked.

  “You’re an educated man, with science backing everything you’ve been taught. How could Dad have stumbled on anything important?” she asked. “He was so…”

  “Normal?”

  Bev kept walking. “Dad never wanted to be with us, Rex. Don’t you understand that? He made things up to give himself excuses for never being home. Not only that, but he’s also ruined your life because of it. Mom’s too. You think even if he didn’t die back then, that it’s worth finding him? After what he did to us?”

  She pulled her jacket tight, blinking quickly as she stared at me.

  “You’re right. He didn’t want to be with us, but only because there was something greater than his family to deal with,” I said, maybe for my own benefit.

  She didn’t buy it. “That’s a bunch of crap. I’m a parent, and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for those kids. Nothing. You wouldn’t understand,” she said.

  There it was again. The inevitable dig at my lifestyle choice. The perpetual bachelor. “No, I guess I wouldn’t.”

  Snow fell harder, already coating the entire cemetery with a fresh sheet as far as the eye could see. The land flattened within the cemetery, rolling hills lining the back acres. The town, as I thought of it, technically was a city, but the cemetery was far larger than the population should have demanded. The township had been formed over one hundred and fifty years ago, making the dates on some of these crumbling gravestones well past a century old.

  Most of those were in the far corner, near the vast oak trees and the duck pond. Those trees were bereft of leaves, and a few blew by me as we stopped. Dad’s gravestone didn’t match Mom’s. His was from the late eighties, sometime after he’d gone missing. We’d held out as long as we could.

  Dirk Allan Walker. Father. Husband. Dreamer.

  05.18.48 – 09.24.89

  He’d been almost the same age as I was now when he’d gone missing. It made me feel unaccomplished. Professionally, I was right where I should be. I’d done the schooling, worked for one of the world’s largest museums, and now I was teaching in Boston with a doctorate under my belt. I’d met many of my goals, but I still felt like a fraud every time I threw that tweed jacket on.

  I yearned to be chasing his journal entries, learning what my old man had been after. It was almost ironic. He’d had the family, the house with the white picket fence, the job and friends, and a doting wife, but all he’d wanted to do was the same thing as me. Adventure was in my blood, and the idea of never feeling that thrill again made me squirm.

  In contrast, my mother’s stone had ornate roses—her favorite flower—carved over the top ridges. There was gold etched on it, and I still couldn’t believe she was gone.

  Bev didn’t speak as she gawked between the two markers like she was in a trance, and I stepped away. Something was bothering me from the book I’d found the night before, an avenue I’d failed to explore.

  Clayton Belvedere. My father’s best friend. They’d been sewn at the hips since childhood, and when Dad had first started his freelance treasure-hunting business in the early seventies, Clay had been there, leaving his job at the auto mechanic shop.

  His tombstone had to be here too, somewhere among the thousands of markers. I peered over my shoulder, seeing the chapel a half-mile further, and decided to leave Bev for a spell. She didn’t seem to notice me abandoning her, and I hugged my arms around myself, the chill of the morning seeping past the thin layer of my blazer.

  A narrow river ran across the land, and I stepped onto a ten-foot-long arched wooden bridge, my feet slipping over the damp snow. Bridge. What had my dad been referring to? The name sounded familiar, but not distinct. It was like trying to think of the name of a band from your youth, knowing it, but unable to withdraw it from the recesses of your memory. It nagged at me, tugging at my brain.

  The chapel wasn’t large, its spire holding a rusted cross on top. It was Thanksgiving and snowing, so I wasn’t surprised to see that the cemetery was empty and the building was closed. I knew this chapel also held their administrative offices, and I walked the perimeter, scanning for CCTV cameras. Nothing. I presumed they didn’t run into many issues.

  The walls were stucco, bits of glass and rock plastered to the exterior, and I touched one right under the window. The window was an old lift-style, single-pane, with a twist lock latching it along the bottom edge of the frame. In my occupation, I’d had to break in to a few unsavory places. Sometimes out of a few too.
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  My knife was in my hand a second later, the blade flipped open, and I dug it under the window. Snow had begun accumulating, and I blew at it, revealing the crack I was hoping for. The latch turned easier than I’d expected. The maintenance crew must be on top of the facility, greasing them to keep them from corroding.

  I glanced around, ensuring no one was watching, and pushed up on the wooden window. It slid halfway open, and I judged that enough space to crawl through. I hopped, using my hands to lift me inside. I rotated as I entered, landing on a desk full of plastic containers holding pamphlets about death and upgraded mahogany coffins.

  I was in. The lights were off, and I listened for any sounds of life. It was quiet, with the exception of an old cherry-wood grandfather clock near the coat rack loudly ticking the seconds away. Bev would be wondering where I’d gotten to, and I hurried, seeing the entrance to the chapel to my right. The offices were to the left.

  I jogged past the bathrooms and found the door unlocked. There were three desks, along with four filing cabinets. I searched the tags on the fronts, finding they were filed in alphabetical order. A place like this might have the files all stored in the cloud these days, but I didn’t have time to mess with electronics or password protection. Plus Clay had been missing since eighty-nine, long before they kept digital records of things at small-town cemeteries.

  The B’s were precisely where I expected them, and again I had to use the knife to pick the cheap barrel lock. It opened easily, and I began flipping through the files, combing for Belvedere. I found four, and assumed they were related to Clay. Parents or relatives. I retrieved his second and pulled it free. There was an address, and a next of kin listed. Ronnie Belvedere. His daughter. I hadn’t seen her for thirty-something years, not since her mother had dragged her off after Clay’s disappearance. She’d always blamed my father for losing Clay, and she was probably right to condemn him.

  Each person was given a map when their loved one made their eternal resting place at Sleepy Grove Cemetery, and it looked like the office had added a copy to the resident’s paperwork. I snatched it, returning everything to its original location. I crept from the offices and went to the window, which I’d left wide open. I exited, shutting the pane behind me. All that would be left of my visit would be melted snow on the desk.

  I peered at the map and followed the dotted line from the chapel toward the duck pond. Clay’s family must have purchased a plot for him prematurely, and I could tell from the quality of the gravestones that we were entering a different era.

  Bev was still nowhere in sight, and I knew she was going to be pissed with me for leaving her out there alone. She’d just admitted she was scared of this place, and I’d run off.

  I counted the ticks on the map. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. I walked as gracefully as I could over the plots, trying to be respectful, until I reached the proper markings. Clayton M. Belvedere. It was a simple stone. My heart hammered in my chest as I spotted the symbol. It was almost like a P overlapping over a capital T. The tattoo. My dad and Clay each had the marks on them, and the very same image was inked on my chest.

  There were dates, and I crouched, noticing something else etched over the surface near the bottom left.

  “Rex, what the hell are you doing?” Bev asked. I’d been so enthralled that I hadn’t heard her approaching.

  “Give me a minute,” I said.

  The digits weren’t painted in; rather, they were carvings less than a quarter-inch high. I yanked the phone from my pocket and snapped a couple of shots, zooming to see if I’d captured it well. I didn’t.

  “Bev, do you have a pencil in there?” I asked.

  “Pencil? Let’s get out of here… wait, is that Clayton’s?” she asked, the anger vanquished from her voice.

  “Pencil. Do you have a pen? Something to write with?” I held a palm out, and she rifled through her purse. I’d seen the inside of my sister’s bag before, and it carried enough survival equipment to make it through an apocalypse.

  “No pen, but I have lipstick,” she told me, holding out a golden tube.

  “It’ll do.” I popped the top, twisting the base, and used the map in my other hand, flipping it over so I was looking at the blank side. I ran the lipstick across it aggressively, ultimately ruining the tube. “I’ll buy you another one.”

  Bev was beside me, resting fingers on my back. “What are you doing?”

  “Taking a rubbing. Usually, I’d use charcoal and a better-quality paper, but this’ll have to work.” I finished, and scanned the stone for any other markings. When I was convinced there were no more, I stood back, looking at the image I’d recorded.

  It was a series of numbers. From a quick glance, they didn’t make sense. Maybe they were coordinates, but something was off about them. This was Marcus’ area of expertise, and I needed to share this with him.

  “What are you hoping to find?” Bev asked me, her expression exhausted.

  “I don’t know, but aren’t you curious what really happened?”

  She started walking away. “I thought I could have a normal holiday with my brother. We’d catch up, you could spend some time with the kids and bond with Fred over a football game. And here you are, up to your old games.”

  “My career isn’t a game.”

  “It sure seems like it. Give me the keys, I’ll be at the car.”

  I glanced at the paper before folding it evenly, making sure the lipstick didn’t smudge, and set it into my breast pocket. “Let’s get some lunch.” Whatever I’d just discovered could wait. It already had, for thirty-five years.

  4

  I said my goodbyes with mixed feelings about leaving. The past few days had been great once I’d let go and immersed myself into visiting with my family. I was stuffed, having eaten more in four days than I usually did in two weeks. Bev seemed better as she stood on our childhood home’s front step with her lovely family, waving as I drove off. I had the box of Dad’s belongings in the back seat, along with the rubbing from Clayton’s grave, and I dialed Marcus the moment I was out of Bev’s range.

  I peered through the rear view mirror, noticing a dark-tinted BMW emerge from across the street, failing to signal as it ran a stop sign.

  Marcus answered on the second ring. “Rex, you have to be thinking what I am, right?”

  I laughed, imagining his goofy expression. From the tone in his voice, it was obvious he was excited, probably pacing around his small apartment. “About what?”

  “The object near Pluto. This is it.”

  “I’ve been off the grid for a couple days. You’re going to have to fill me in.” I drove from town, happy to be on my way home. It had been nice to reconnect with my sister, but I was on the brink of a major breakthrough. I was sure of it.

  “It’s doubled. There are two of them.”

  “Two? How is that possible?”

  “No idea. They split like a cell. Like mitosis.”

  “More likely, there were always two sections, stacked together to appear as one. It’s too far out to see clear enough,” I guessed.

  “Maybe. You’re going home?” Marcus asked.

  “Yeah, be there in a couple of hours. I need you to come over.”

  “I already was. Remember, you invited me for dinner. Said there’d be pie,” Marcus reminded me.

  “Sorry, buddy. Forgot the pie, but we can order take-out. Even from that crappy noodle place you keep mentioning.” I wanted to share the news about what I’d discovered, but held back. My foot pressed firmly to the pedal, and I had to ease off. The state troopers were out on the Sunday after a holiday, waiting for low-hanging fruit.

  “You must have something really good, then. I’ll be there.” Marcus paused, and I could sense more coming. “Rex. What if they are heading for Earth?”

  “The objects near Pluto?”

  “Sure. What if they’ve decided now’s the time?”

  I prided myself in the evidence of facts, and I’d never openly admitted my belief in ali
ens in a professional setting. I’d followed the careers of some of the top people in my field, and anyone that remotely accepted the role of extraterrestrials in the shaping of our ancient cultures was quickly lambasted and kicked out of all social circles.

  There may not have been enough actual proof for me to straight-up say without a shred of uncertainty that I knew aliens had visited us. On the other hand, I was certain my father, Dirk Walker, had believed, and that kept me open-minded.

  Traffic was heavier, and I glanced in the mirror as I attempted to lane-change around a particularly slow semi-trailer. The dark BMW was still trailing me. It’s nothing. Just someone from the big city visiting relatives.

  “Meet me at my place at five. We’ll chat then.” I hung up before Marcus could ask any more questions, and instead of listening to talk radio for the duration of the trip, I set it to some soothing classic rock. I drummed my fingers to the beat of an old Journey song, and kept an eye on my speed as I anxiously drove for Boston. By the time I’d entered the city limits, there was no sign of the other car, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Something really had me on edge.

  Marcus was already waiting for me as I pulled in front of my brownstone. Amazingly, there was an open parking spot three units down, a benefit of everyone leaving town for the weekend. Marcus sat on my front steps, scrolling on his cell phone, and I shoved the box at his chest. “Do you mind?”

  He grunted, and I retrieved my keys from my pocket, unlocking the townhouse door. I loved everything about my home, and had lived here for the past decade, long before I’d even considered a job in the city. My parents had met in Boston and spent their first five years struggling in a small apartment downtown while Mom worked two jobs, Dad finishing his final dissertation at Harvard.

  The place was stuffy when I entered, and I kicked off my shoes. The snow hadn’t hit Boston yet, but it would only be a matter of time. I opened the front window, cool air passing by the white curtains, and I dropped my keys in the bowl on the foyer table.