An hour later, after the diner had closed, and Claire still hadn't responded to Margaret’s page, John started to worry.
“She should be back home by now,” he said. "Why hasn't she called?”
“Calm down,” Margaret said as she counted the money in her cash register. “She must not have heard her beeper. She’ll call when she gets the message.”
John felt helpless. “You don’t know Miles. He doesn’t make empty threats. I knew I shouldn’t have let her go off on her own.”
“Hah!” Bill chimed in. The sixty-year-old from Austin, Texas sat at the bar nursing his Bloody Mary drink. “I’d like to see you try and stop her. She’s a grown woman.”
“I didn’t ask you for two cents, Tex,” John said, pacing.
Bill placed a dark brown buffalo felt cowboy hat on his head and grabbed his keys. “Well, that’s just too bad. I only took her to her prom, helped put her in college, and convinced her to change her major to medicine, but what do I know? Except that my two cents count for more than what you bring to the table, son.”
“Oh, you’re a real smart-Alek aren’t you, Tex? Go ahead and piss off the man who can snap your neck.”
“Boys!” Margaret said sharply. “That’s enough now. Y’all gon make me get my belt.”
“Alright, I’m out of here,” John said. “It’s after ten. If I leave now, I can make it home by eleven.”
"Hold on," Margaret called after him. “You don't have to walk. Does he, Bill?" she nodded to the potbelly man.
Bill turned and gazed at her quizzically. "What?"
Margaret cocked her head and stretched her eyes at him.
"What? You're asking me to give John a ride? You want me to let John Hemingway ride in my Chevy?"
"Yeah, Marge," John scoffed. “For once I agree with Tex. I’m not taking charity from this old fart."
"John!" Margaret exclaimed.
"No-no," Bill piped, putting up his hands. "I can be an old fart. Watch this.” Bill turned on his stool and faced John with mischief in his eyes. "John, you dim-wit, bushwhack, sorry excuse for a soldier, you'd freeze to death before I let you set foot in my car." He grinned and turned back to Margaret. "See?"
"Yeah," John nodded to her. "And I would swallow battery acid before I take a handout from this beef-munching, cow-tipping, overalls wearing, fat turd from hick-town, USA."
Bill snickered. "I'm impressed. You managed to string all those verbs together without trippin’ over those clunkers you call feet."
"And I can't believe you can speak in complete sentences without stopping to exhale."
Bill jumped up and pointed at John. "Alright now. You've bout reached your quota with those fat jokes."
"Boys," Margaret said, frustrated. "Y'all are working on my nerves. I’m about to put both of y’all out of my restaurant."
"Oh, so he can call me a sorry excuse for a soldier, but when I call him a fat turd, I’ve crossed some kind of a line?" John said to her. Margaret pursed her lips and looked at him, wearily.
"With all that is going on in the world, I just don’t see how two grown men have time to take digs at each other. John you just lost your best friend and partner. Claire is all you got. She’s in danger, and instead of asking for help, you let your ego get in the way."
“She’s right,” Bill nodded. “Your stubbornness always gets you into trouble. You need to straighten up and fly-
“Oh, shut up, cow tipper,” Margaret said to Bill. “You ain’t much better.”
“Me? What did I do?”
“This man is already wound tight enough as it is. And now you tryna push him over the edge. You lucky he too busy worrying about Claire to snap your neck. And speakin’ of Claire -
“Don’t you do it, Margaret,” Bill said. “Don’t throw a guilt trip on me. Yes, I was there for her when John-boy was away. But now that Big Papa is home, what does he need the old fart for?”
“Fine,” Margaret said, exasperated. “But when we do find her, I’ll be certain to let her know how much help her Uncle Bill has been.”
“Fine,” Bill exhaled. He grabbed his coat and headed for the door. “Come on, bushwhack. Let’s go find your daughter.”
***
"Alright, John," Bill said as he shimmied into the driver seat of his 2020 Chevrolet Silverado 1500. "So, here's the deal. I was always gonna help you find Claire. I love her like she’s my own flesh and blood."
"Even though she’s not," John muttered to himself.
"What was that?"
John shook his head and motioned for Bill to continue.
"As I was saying. I just couldn’t resist giving you a good ribbing."
"OK, good," John said, snapping his fingers. "Let’s go. What are we waiting for?"
"Hold on, I have something to say. Claire is in a very vulnerable place right now. She's lost her mother and you just lost the love of your life."
John's blood began to boil. "Thank you, Captain Obvious; understatement of the year. You are as astute as you are stout.”
“See? That's what I'm talking about; that temper of yours. When we find her, perhaps you should let me do the talking. She’s already going through so much. You yelling at her as you do might send her over the edge."
John was seething. He had tried hard not to hate Bill. This man had done so much for his family while he was away. At first, the two had been cordial. But it was in 2021, one year after the war had begun. Master Sergeant Hemingway was stationed in Prudhoe Bay, defending the Alaskan Pipeline when he received a letter from Bill Torwalt, requesting guardianship over Claire.
From that day forward, the two of them had not gotten along. Bill had developed a bad habit of inserting himself into John and Claire's quarreling over the years and they had nearly come to blows several times.
"I don't need you telling me how to handle my daughter," John said quietly. "Now are you going to help me or not?”
“Alright, let’s go.” Bill turned the key to start up the Silverado. The old truck engine began to crank but sputtered and died. "Well, that can't be good," Bill mumbled. He turned the key and pressed the gas pedal to the floor. The truck revved but it still didn't start.
"Sounds like you might have a bad starter," John told Bill. “When was the last time you changed it?"
"You know, I’ve been meaning to get to it but with bullets and grenades flying all over the place, it slipped my mind."
He tried it once more and this time the thirteen-year-old truck sputtered and came to life. “She gettin’ old, but still purrs like a kitten,” Bill chuckled as they pulled out of the parking lot.
"You still need to get that starter changed," John remarked.
"Whatever you say, John-boy."
Bill had to navigate the roads carefully. The once beautiful Franklin Park leading to Sewickley Hills had been blasted and shelled by mortars and explosives. Most of the I-79 from Sewickley to the I-279 in Blueberry Hill had been reduced to rubble. Passengers coming through were forced to get off I-79 at Glenfield which was further south and ride all the way north to Mt. Nebo Rd.
This led to major traffic jams and became one of the more frustrating areas to traverse. An irritated Bill honked and swore profusely at cars in front and behind them attempting to avoid craters and potholes.
“The GRA found a way to take down the strongest government in the world, but somehow can’t afford to fix a few broken roads?” he spat.
“They’re not going to rebuild Pennsylvania, Bill,” John replied.
“Why not? They rebuilt California, Nevada, Nebraska, New York, Tennessee-
“We were one of the last strongholds after they took down D.C and New York. They lost more men here, and in New York, Texas, Kentucky, Missouri, and Carolinas than they did in most of the west combined.”
“So, because we fought to save our nation and was good at it, they’re going to make us suffer? Hell, the only one who benefits from these traffic jams is Margaret.”
"Marge's specialty is feeding hungry frustrated customers. Nebo is less than half a mile and we’ve been sitting here for eight minutes. I know a shortcut. Turn east here on Red Mud Hollow.”
“I know what you’re thinking. But I’m sure Red Mud is just as backed up. You’re basically taking a bend northwest and driving back into traffic at Sewickley Creek.”
“Yeah, but most of Red Mud escaped damaged during the strikes. Just make this right before the light changes.”
Red Mud Hollow too was jammed, but as John predicted, the traffic was moving steadily. A long stretch of it leading to Magee had miraculously remained largely intact. They turned left at the bend into Sewickley Creek and made their way to Henry Rd. John was grateful that it was mostly a rural area, and Bill picked up speed to about forty before reaching John’s place.
“Turn off the headlights,” he said quietly once they had made a left turn on to the dirt road leading to his house.
“Wait, you think Miles is here?” Bill whispered. “You think we’re walkin' into a trap?”
“Just follow my lead. Turn out the lights and when we get to the driveway, you stay in the truck. Don’t get out unless you see me. Understood?”
Bill frowned and glowered at John. “You do know my forty-five is loaded, right?" as John's subdivision came into view. "What? You think I can’t handle myself?”
“I know you can handle yourself, Tex," John told him. "Put your ego in your pocket. Things could get hairy and we might need a quick exit. You’re the getaway driver.”
“Don’t patronize me,” Bill snapped. “I am sixty years old. I was training to fight while you were still in diapers.”
“Yeah, Tex, I know all about your Army training, okay? But Khalif Miles isn't one of your training exercises. He’s a sociopath and a bloodthirsty warlord."
"And I’m an old school Army vet with an itchy trigger finger. What’s your point?"
"Unless you sawed a man in half while he was still breathing, my point stands."
Bill froze and eyeballed John. “You just made that up, didn’t you?”
“I wish. You are Texas tough, Tex. You can be a mean old bastard, but you have a good heart. That’s why you need to keep it as far away from Miles as possible. Claire would never forgive me if something happened to you."
“Don’t go gettin’ all sentimental on me now,” Bill whispered as they pulled into the abandoned cul-de-sac. “Keep your head. I’ll stay here."
John’s small shabby home sat in the middle of five abandoned houses. It was pitch black, save a dimly lit street light on a telephone pole on the left corner. Bill pulled the truck to a stop and removed his forty-five. He opened his glove box and handed John a flashlight.
"Keep the truck running,” John whispered. “And keep a lookout for CW. Don’t let her come in until you see me.”
***
John stepped out of Bill’s truck and pulled the collar of his suit jacket up around his neck to shield him from the cold. He whipped out his MK25 and crossed the flashlight over top of his shooting arm. Steadily, the Navy Seal moved toward the side of the house and listened for signs of life. When he heard nothing, he came around to the front door and pulled out his key. Tucking his weapon in his pants, he plugged the key into his makeshift padlock on his door. He had to shimmy the rusty lock to get it to open and it fell to the floor with a thud.
So much for the element of surprise, John thought to himself. He swore at his clumsy efforts and kicked open the door. Aiming his flashlight over his weapon, he quickly entered and began sweeping the house. Calling out Claire’s name, he cleared each room. It appeared that nothing had been touched since they left that morning.
To his surprise, the lights were still working. The old generator had been giving them problems, but he was skeptical about getting one with more power that could alert the power company. Sure, he and Claire hadn't eaten for half a week, but at least his job afforded him the luxury of free power. The last thing he wanted to do was to cause a spike in power grid reading charts. Anonymity kept him and Claire off the grid.
Satisfied that his home had not been breached, John headed out the back door. Scanning the area, he called for Claire again. Nothing; only a dog barking in the distance. He then went back into the house and checked his voicemail for messages. There was one new message. John took a deep breath and prayed that it was from Claire. It wasn’t like her to stay out this late, even after the nationwide curfew had lifted. To his dismay, it wasn’t her. It was his contact about a man coming from Buffalo, looking to purchase weapons.
John dropped his head and tentatively pressed the option on his phone to hear the recording. The message was from a man with a voice enhancer confirming the meet set for tomorrow at 8 am. John could tell by his speech that it was his liaison. The man instructed him to take the back roads to the meeting spot to where he and John usually met to deliver goods and exchange intel. He instructed John to ask no questions, give him a tutorial of the weapons he was interested in, give him a set amount of time to test the goods, and then get the money.
As a weapon’s mechanic, John knew the risks. The GRA had outlawed the use and sale of all firearms. Putting food on the table meant that he had to change his tactics and revert to more covert ways of obtaining merchandise. Though he trusted his liaison, it made him anxious when dealing with new clients. There was always the risk of an undercover sting.
Something about this call made him feel all the more uneasy. Traditionally, he set the parameters of the meet. He relied on a strict vetting process concerning the client’s profile and needs. He arranged product details, times, locations, etc. Now, he was the one in the dark. The man from Buffalo, a thriving city in fallen America shrouded himself in anonymity. John knew nothing about him, except the type of weaponry he wanted.
The combat veteran switched back to Claire and he quickly changed into a t-shirt, jeans, a pullover, sneakers, a flight jacket, and knit cuff winter hat. He grabbed a duffle bag and went out the back door. After clearing the backyard, he reached underneath a rusty large shed and slid his fingers along the edge, until he felt a device. Gently, he tugged the device free from underneath the shed and unwrapped the duct tape adhesive. Turning on the remote, John pressed the disarm button and waited to hear a sound inside the shed beep twice.
When he heard the two beeps, he slowly opened the door of the shed. There at the entrance sat an M18A1 Claymore mine; a nasty surprise for anyone daring to enter his backyard. Chances were it’d be someone desperate for food. But he was wanted by the GRA and wasn’t willing to take chances.
John carefully moved the clamor and stepped inside. Automatic lights flickered on and he laid the large duffle bag on the floor. Quickly, he stuffed it with an AR Fifteen machine gun, a Chiappa Little Badger Series rifle, attachments, a laser site, ammo, three smoke grenades, gun holsters, a war belt, a Special Forces Columbian River M16 Folding Knife, a tactical turner kit and a cheap satellite phone. He had hoped against all hope that Miles had not found his daughter, but if he had, John would light up the sky to get her back safely. He no longer cared that it could alert the GRA to him.
Rearming the clamor, he went inside the house, tide the gun holster to his thigh, and holstered a Glock 17 pistol. After slipping on a Kevlar body armor vest, he removed the floorboard two his closet and stuffed two passports, fake i.d. plane tickets, jewelry, gum, some blueprint docs, and magazines into a small bag. He was certain this would be his last night in Sewickley after going up against Miles. He was going to but the GRA agent in the ground and skip town with Claire as fast as they could go.
Just then, John heard voices outside. The warrior froze and listened intently, but couldn’t make out the voices. Was it Miles? Had he arrived and taken Bill, hostage? Did he have Claire with him, and ordered John from the truck. With adrenaline pumping through his veins, he grabbed the duffle bag and scuttled to the front of the house.
A man and a woman were conversing. Their tones were hushed but urgent. He immediately recognized the sound of Claire’s voice, but could barely make out the other. Claire sound like she was in trouble, but he couldn’t hear what she was saying. John laid the bag down and removed the AR Fifteen. But then he realized, he wouldn't have the time he needed to load the magazine clip. Frantically, he searched the bag and found an infrared night vision single tube scope from and released the safety switch on his Siq and darted to the front door.
Counting to three, aimed out the door, ready to empty his magazine. The infrared imaging showed the body heat signature of Claire standing outside the truck and Bill’s seated in the driver seat. They were alone. Sweat dripping from his head, John breathed a sigh of relief and lowered his weapon.
“Hurry up," Bill was saying to her. “Hop in."
"What's wrong?" Claire replied. "Where's my dad?"
"Just get in here," Bill said, annoyed. “I’ll explain everything.”
John was relieved that she was safe, but also couldn’t help but be furious with her. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was almost eleven p.m. He understood the pain she was going through. He knew she felt lost and scared. But there was no excuse in his mind why she couldn’t’ at least respond to Margaret’s page. Frustrated, John tossed the goggles on the bag and rushed out the door just as Claire was getting in the truck. He came to her side and touched her on the shoulder. Clair gasped and turned to see that it was him.
“Jesus, Dad!” she said. “What are you trying to do? Give me a heart attack?”
“You do remember that I actually had a heart attack about five years ago, right darling?” Bill said.
Claire placed a hand on his arm. “Oh, yeah. Sorry.” Her brown skin made out almost like a silhouette against the flickering street lighten the lamp post.
“Where the hell have you been?” John said gruffly.
“Dad, not now,” Claire replied. "I have a splitting headache.”
“Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“I’m sorry,” Claire said, snidely. “I didn’t know it was a school night.”
“You think this is a joke, CW?” John said, incensed.
“Now take it easy, John,” Bill chimed in. “We talked about this. Take a breath.”
“Stay out of this, Bill!” John snapped.
“Whoa, Dad!” Claire said, putting up her hands. “You need to take it down about ten decibels.”
“Why? I shouldn’t be upset that you were running around town this time of night doing God knows what with God knows who? Why didn’t you answer your pager?”
“Because I forgot to bring it. Anyway, what does it matter who I was with? I’m here, aren’t I?”
“You were with that Jap kid weren’t you; that pothead.”
“For the last time, Otto isn’t Japanese. He’s Filipino. And what does he have to do with anything?”
“You know I hate that kid. He’s careless and is going to lead the GRA right to us.”
“You’re unbelievable,” Claire said to her father. She got out of the truck and stood face to face with him. “You hate him because he smokes marijuana? Well, Otto wasn’t the one too wasted to take me to my prom. It wasn’t Otto who punched the DJ at my eighteenth birthday bash.”
“Calm down,” John scoffed. “It wasn’t that big of a deal. Your mom blew that way out of proportion.”
“What?” Claire said, infuriated. She folded her arms and glanced at Bill. “Dad, we had to take the guy to the ER. You broke his jaw.”
“And I apologized for that and paid his medical bill.”
“That’s not the point. I'm trying too-”
"CW, what’s done is done. You’re twenty-four years old. Why drudge up the past? The point is I’m your father. It’s my job to protect you now."
Claire smiled in disbelief. “You’re going to protect me? Like you did Mom?”
John felt his blood pressure rising. “What did you just say to me?” he said ominously. Claire had a knack for pushing John’s buttons. Never had he once hit her or Sasha, but Claire was a predator when it came to hitting below the belt. In fleeting moments of rage, he had envisioned knocking her on her back the way his father had done him and his mother many times over. But he had sworn never to be like the man that made his life living hell. But this time Claire had gone too far.
“Say that again,” John challenged her, raising his voice. His fist clenched and he inched closer to her. “Say that one more time!"
“Whoa now,” Tex said. He exited the vehicle and came around to Claire’s side and pulled her behind him. “No, John. Back up. Claire, run away. Live to fight another day."
“I’m not afraid of him, Tex," she rebutted.
“Yeah, well maybe you should be after that comment,” Bill said, appearing to sympathize with John. “That was too far,” he said pointing a finger at her and holding out a palm to keep John back. “Way too far."
“I’m sorry, but I can’t help it. He just takes me there. Mom would have never-
"You shut your mouth,” John growled, pointing a finger in her face. "You shut your mouth right now! I did everything I could to save her life.” He shook his head and his eyes began to fill. “Don’t you ever use your mother against me again, or so help me God…” He stopped and turned to walk away. Even in a fit of rage, he knew he had to be careful. He had caused enough damage to his family with his words. He had won the fight against the demons of violence that haunted his father. But his temper had brought Sasha to tears many times.
He exhaled slowly and came back to where Claire and Bill stood. “So, what should I do, huh? Should Apologize for not listening to you when you begged to stay? Will that bring her back? You are all I have left. We just survived the unthinkable. We witnessed the fall of the most powerful nation on earth. People are scared and will do anything to survive. So yeah, I’m going to be an overbearing pushy father, because that’s my job.”
Claire clapped her hands and shook her head. “What a beautiful speech. I would have given anything to have an overbearing pushy father; someone who would ground me for coming home past curfew and have those awkward conversations with me about boys. But instead, you chose to go off and fight a losing battle. And you think what? Now because Mom is gone and you have no one, you get to play dad and run my life? You’re about eight years too late.”
“Who the heck names their kid Otto?” Bill said as if in his own world.
Claire turned and gaped at him. She grabbed her purse out of the truck and stormed into the house.
“What?” Bill said. "What did I do?”
John rolled his eyes.
“Well don’t just stand there,” Bill said sharply. “You need to tell her the reason you’re behaving like a giant tool.”
“Yeah, I know,” John replied, rubbing his head. “Maybe I’ll just give her a couple of minutes. I guess I kind of did go overboard there.”
“I tried to tell you. Easy does it with her.”
“I just can’t help it,” John said, pacing. "You haven’t met this Otto punk. He's a cocky little know-it-all, with a smart mouth.
"Yeah, I hate young punks like that," Bill agreed.
"You ought to meet this jerk. He thinks he's God's gift to women. Every time I hear his name, I just want to…” He stopped and looked at Bill. “I just want to punch something.”
“Well don’t look at me,” Bill said.
***
Claire stormed into her room and slammed the door behind her. She couldn’t take being around her father one more second. The nerve of him to speak to her the way he did. Did he think she would cave? She was a grown woman and wasn’t going to be bullied by anyone. Especially someone that abandoned her time and time again. She and her mother had been looking after themselves for ten years while he was off fighting.
Claire threw her coat across a chair and changed into a pair of stonewashed jeans and hoodie over a sleeveless t-shirt. Watching the front door for John, she went into the kitchen and poured herself a half glass of Pacific Peak Cabernet Sauvignon. The last thing she needed was for him to see her drinking. There was no way she’d sit quietly by while he attempts to lecture her about her vice when he had some of his own.
Claire sat the drink on the table before her and wrestled with her conscience. She had sworn to her mother that she was done with alcohol. But the more she thought about her, the deeper she sank into the pit of gloom. Images of them playing together at the park when she was a kid swirled in her head; the times Sasha had nursed Claire back to health when she suffered an injury while playing a sport; the gentle way she chided Claire when she got in trouble in school.
A feeling of helplessness invaded Claire's soul and tears filled her eyes as she turned up the glass and gulped the wine down. The sweet poison took her in deeper and beckoned her to drown her sorrows. Her wounds were fresh. A stabbing pain formed in the pit of her belly. Pouring herself a second glass, the young woman let the invading memories of watching Sasha being forced from her home envelop her.
Her mother kicked and screamed as the men covered her head with a bag and tased her. Claire fought them the best she could, but was thrown against the wall and knocked unconscious. Hours later, she was awakened by Margaret and neighbors and was told that Pittsburgh was under attack. Frantic that her mother was missing, she fought to convince them to help find Sasha, but the neighbors had to force her into their car and flee the city.
Chaos and fighting rang in the streets of Pittsburgh. Panicked citizens ran to and fro, ducking bombs, motors, and falling debris. In the confusion, Claire had gotten separated from Margaret and friends. The streets shook with fury as enemy personal began slaughtering everyone in sight. Claire had to hide under a pile of bleeding bodies to escape detection.
For two weeks, in the aftermath, she had to survive in the streets on her own, ducking and dodging enemy soldiers. But as miserable as she was, she couldn’t bring herself to return to her home. For all she knew, both her parents were dead by now. She was relieved when John had finally found her and told her what happened to him. He was on a helicopter transport to return home when the city was decimated by a bomb.
Claire poured herself a third glass and raised it to her lips. She closed her eyes tightly and tears drained into her drink. Feeling powerless and rage, she flung the glass against the wall. It shattered and red wine went everywhere.
"CW?" she heard her father say. "What are you doing? Are you drinking?"
Claire didn't respond.
"Where did you find my Cabernet?"
Again, she said nothing. She rose from the table, grabbed the broom and dustpan, and began cleaning up the spill. John put the wine away and watched her.
"I'm not going to yell at you again," he said. "I know you're processing this in your own way. I know this is difficult. Your mother kept this family together. She kept us sane. And now it's just us."
Claire bent down and swept the glass into the dustpan. She noticed her hands trembling. She emptied the glass into the trashcan and grabbed a cloth to clean up the wine.
"I know you blame me for her death. And it's ok. If that what you need to do to heal, then that's fine."
Claire found a piece of glass she missed and reached to grab it. The sharp edge cut her finger and she swore and stuck it in her mouth. John took her hand and surveyed the wound.
"What are you doing?" she said.
“Just want to see how bad it is. I’m sure it's just a scratch."
"You do know I am an MD, right?"
"Even doctors need to be cared for," he said, searching under the sink. "Where's the peroxide."
"That's an old myth. Peroxide or rubbing alcohol can harm the tissue and delay it's healing."
John squinted at her Claire. "Really?"
"Mild soap is better for minor cuts. You're a Seal and you don't know this?"
"We used an ointment."
"I have a turner kit in my room, dad. I can handle this."
"No need," John said, grabbing his kit from his duffle bag. "I have one right here. Just let me..." He struggled to open the flap of the kit.
"Dad," Claire said, rolling her eyes.
"No-no," he John with a smile. "I got it. Now you get the soap, we'll clean it and-
"Dad, stop!" Claire said, raising her voice. "I said I can handle it myself."
John looked dejected. He stood there, holding the turner get unsure of what to do. Claire hated herself for this, but the pain was just too raw and too real.
"I can't do this. I don't need you kissing my boo-boos and trying to be there for me. You weren't here when I need you the most. So why now? Just leave me alone."
With that, Claire rushed to her room and slammed the door. She plopped down on her bed and removed her necklace from around her neck. Guilt ate away at her as opened the locket. Sasha would have never approved of her words or actions. A lump formed in her throat when she studied a picture of her mother, her Aunt Vivian, and herself. She thought about the last words Viv ever said to her before the tank blasts.
"I love you. Tell your mom and dad I’m sorry."
All of a sudden, the lights died. Claire raised her head and struggled to adjust her eyes to the dark. “Dad?” she called out. No answer. “Dad!” she called a second time. “The generator went out again.” Still, no answer. “A girl can’t even grieve in peace,” she said, replacing the locket around her neck.
“Dad,” she called out as she felt her way to the door. Her eyes finally adjusted to the darkness and she came out into the living room. The flickering light from the telephone pole outside gave just enough light for Claire to navigate the room without bumping into anything. “Dad, where are you?” she exclaimed once more, losing her patience.
“Outside!” John called from the back porch.
Claire came and stood at the door. John was shining a flashlight on the knobs of the generator.
“Forget it,” she said. "We got away with it as long as we could, but we need to put some money together and get a new one.”
John frowned at her but said nothing. Claire knew it annoyed him when someone stated the obvious to him. Or was he still angry at her for the way she treated him?
“Anyway, I’ll get the emergency bag,” she said. "We’ll have to stay with Bill tonight.”
“Really? That’s all the way across town.”
Claire studied her father. “So, what do you suggest we do? Stay here with no electricity?”
“I’m meeting a client in town in the morning,” John said. “I think it’s going to be a big payday for us this time.”
“That’s fine assuming you’re not being set up.”
“CW, have a little more faith in me than that, will you?”
“I’ve never known you to meet someone without checking their credentials first. I don’t like it. You should call it off.”
“Now who’s being pushy?” John said.
“I’m serious, Dad. I know we have our differences but-
Just then, a phone began ringing.
“What is that?” John said.
“It's the phone, Dad.”
“Did you change the ringtone?” John asked.
Claire shook her head. “Nope.” She followed him into the living room. “It’s a cellphone,” she said, searching for the source of the sound. "Where the heck did you get a cellphone? You know the GRA can track you, right?”
“You know I don’t have a cellphone, CW!” John said as he fished around the desk area. The phone stopped ringing and he fixed his eyes on her.
“Well, if it’s not your phone then…” She stopped and glanced at him. "Wait, you think it’s mine?”
“How else could it have gotten in this house? Did that freakin' Otto jerk give you-
"Oh my God,” Claire groaned. “Really? You think I would do something so juvenile as to hide a phone? Again, Dad, I’m an adult. Hello, I'm Claire Hemingway. Nice to meet…”
The phone began ringing again. “Where in the world is that coming from?” She removed the cushions from the sofa. “Hey! I found it.” She picked up what appeared to be a black flip phone and handed it to John. He hesitantly opened it and put it to his ear.
“Who is this?” he said. Claire heard a man’s voice but couldn’t make out what was being said. John froze and closed his eyes.
“Who is it?” Claire whispered, her pulse-raising.
“Miles,” John said quietly. “I’m guessing this phone belongs to you.”
ns 15.158.61.8da2
