I stepped out of the woods onto mowed grass that went uphill in a graceful curve. Bisecting the hillside was a paved road sans white or yellow lines so it was a driveway rather than a road.
Below me were two stone wings that flanked the drive and made an entrance way. I could smell mums. Which told me, along with the chilly night air and crisp leaves underfoot that it was late autumn.
I walked to the other side of the stone and under the feeble light of brass lanterns, was able to see a large bronze plaque embedded in the finished cement of the wall’s front.
In raised letters it read, TROOP C. I wasn’t sure if that meant the Boy’s Scouts or something more like State Troopers. My mind struggled to remember where I had seen that sign before. I vaguely remembered the gray-haired trooper that had almost caught me at the store in Unadilla. Delano or something. He had remarkably blue eyes.
I was half afraid to go to them, if they were police. My father knew many state cops all over the country who wouldn’t turn him in, a good ol’ boy and since I had no idea where I was, this place could house one of his friends. Yet, I knew I couldn’t do this on my own; I needed adult help. To call Matt. I had no money, no horse, no clue what state this was, no clothes, no coat and no shoes. Not exactly equipped for an escape attempt. That I had made it this far without stumbling into someone was a miracle. I moved back onto the grass behind the wall as red, white and blue lights flashed by below me, illuminating a winding road at the end of the driveway. I was able to see three black cop cars drive east, so fast they were out of sight in two seconds. There was yellow lettering on the sides, Unadilla, NY.
Instantly, my head was filled with images of the area, maps of the roads, topographical areas of interest but, best of all – I knew where I was. Upstate New York, the town where I had found Ballycor. Where I had run away from the private academy where the Trust had sent me.
That was smart – my father had hidden me in the one place where no one would think to look. Right under the Feds’ noses. And Mr. Hooper, the Head Master would be only too pleased to keep me under wraps for the exorbitant fees paid out for my care.
Somehow, Tempe had found a loophole to access the Trust Fund yet not give me up to the authorities.
The cop cars didn’t come up the drive nor did anyone come down from the barracks. Normally, the Troopers were on the road patrolling except for the sergeant and support staff.
I hesitated and then walked up the road toward the buildings hoping that I could find a warm, safe place to crash for a few hours. Maybe find some food and decide whether it was safe to approach the state cops.
The closer I came to the barracks, the brighter the parking area and the colder I became. I was shivering so much that I found it hard to breathe. My breath plumed out in front of me and obscured the shapes of a dozen cruisers sitting quietly in neat rows under the light poles. Atop the poles were cameras and from the angles, I was sure that they covered every inch of the approach to the doors and windows.
The building was a long ‘L’ shape and made of warm rose brick with blue-stone window sills and foundation stones. Barred windows and reinforced doors. There were several outbuildings, garages and maintenance sheds.
On the far side of the lot was another parking area and that was where the cops parked personal vehicles. Mostly pickup trucks, a couple of SUVs and one fire-engine red Ford Mustang that was cherry. I guessed that his buddies gave him grief over the go-fast car.
I decided to walk right up the center of the drive so that when I pushed on the intercom, it would come as no surprise. I was directly under the small camera lens, so I knew that someone was aware of my approach. I heard the buzzer beep beyond the steel door and a male voice asked who I was and what I wanted. There was evident curiosity in the young sounding voice.
“My name Cris Snow,” I said shivering. My teeth chattered so hard that I wasn’t sure he could hear or understand me. “Please let in, I cold, hungry ‘n thirsty.”
The door buzzed open and I stepped inside a sally-port. Both sides had windows and a glassed-in door made of bullet-proof glass. Behind them stood three uniformed State Troopers. They opened the sally-port door in a rush, their arms loaded with heavy blankets. They wrapped them around me. My legs buckled in sheer relief and the nearest one with sergeant’s stripes hoisted me up against his brawny chest. We hurried down a short hallway into a conference room with a long table, chairs and a leather couch that was as long as the table.
“What are you doing out this late, son?” he chided me. “No shoes, no coat? Did you run away? What’s your name? Peterson call the bus and get some aid here.”
The youngest Trooper turned his head into his shoulder mic and spoke in a low tone. But I heard him anyway as he called for an ambulance. The sergeant rubbed my feet and I stared at them, pale, white and faintly blue. There was blood on them, too but I couldn’t feel anything. I leaned back and closed my eyes.
“Hey, little guy. Stay awake. We need to know your name,” he encouraged, rubbing my hands and my shoulders. The other trooper dug through a first aid box on the wall and snapped something. He put plastic boxes under my thighs, shoulders and between my legs. They were warm, almost too hot.
I shook my head and tried to speak but between the cold and my poor verbal skills, I couldn’t get anything out of my mouth.
The young one brought me a cup of hot coffee and the sergeant scolded him, saying that hot chocolate would have been better. I drank it anyway, hot, bitter and loaded with caffeine. It cleared my head a bit and the shudders that had made me dizzy stopped.
“Cris,” I managed. “Cris Snow. I ‘scape.”
There was instant silence. I could see that they did not believe me. “Matt Eachann. Call. NYPD.”
“Cris Snow has been missing for a year,” he said. “He’s presumed dead.”
I stared him in the eyes. “I not dead. I don’ know where but ‘scape hospital.”
A year? I had been gone a year? I was a year older and still in the throes of the brain damage from my father’s attempt to strangle me. I cried, and the tears made all of them nervous, unsure what to do for me. I leaned into his chest and sobbed as he awkwardly rubbed my back.
It was only ten minutes later when we heard the strident sounds of the approaching ambulance; the youngest Trooper went to let them in. I was taken carefully from the sergeant’s arms and laid on a gurney while my vitals were checked.
There was some concern over my hands and feet and my core temperature was dangerously low. They hooked me up to an IV with warmed fluids and wrapped me in more blankets. When I heard that they were taking me to a hospital, I threw a hysterical fit and fought them. I tried to tell them that I had escaped from one and didn’t want to go back.
The sergeant interrupted, telling me that he would go with me and to take me to Wilson, not the local ED. “I won’t let you out of my sight, Cris,” he promised.
The EMT looked up. “Cris?”
“He says his name is Cris Snow.”
“We got a report from the clinic in Mt. Upton that a kid ran away from the lab before his aides could bring him back to the Prep School. Said he’s delusional, thinks he’s…” The EMT moved out of my sight and hearing.
“No! No! No!” I shouted. “Call Eachann! Jason Levinger!” I rattled off Matt’s cell phone, the number as clear in my head as my own name. His badge number. Anything I could say to convince them that I was really Cris Snow.
I rocked the gurney, in danger of tipping it and I could see that they wanted to sedate me. I cried, begged them not to and begged the sergeant to listen to me. The harder I ranted, the worse my speech became until I was babbling nonsense.
“Please,” I whispered. The young Trooper held up his cell phone and it rang only a few times before I heard the voice that I knew as well as my own.
“Hey. Who is this?” Matt spoke.
“Detective Matt Eachann?” The sergeant took the cell from the trooper.
“Yes?”
“This is Sergeant Ian Delrosio from Troop C in Unadilla, New York.”
“Is this about Cris Snow?” Matt sounded weary. Depressed. I yelled his name, but it came out more of a grunt. The electricity through the air was almost heavy enough to see.
“CRIS?” he shouted. “Cris? Is that you? Where are you? I’m coming up there, I’ll charter a chopper. Sergeant don’t let that kid out of your sight! You got that? I’m coming, Cris. Where are you?”
“Route 8, between Sidney and Unadilla, Troop C, State Troopers Barracks, on the left side of the highway off I-88.”
“How is he?”
“On his way to Wilson Hospital, he’s hypothermic with possible frostbite issues. We gotta go, the EMTs are here and ready to roll,” Delrosio said.
“I’m on my way. You hear me, Cris? I’ll be there in two hours.”
He didn’t say goodbye and all three troopers walked out with me as I was escorted to the back of the ambulance. The Sergeant did ride in the back with me, holding my hand the entire 45-minute drive west to the big city of Binghamton. I must have zoned out, passed out or fell asleep because I didn’t remember anything until a rush of cold air hit me in the face and woke me. I tried to sit up, but I was strapped in as they rolled me across the helipad.
I could see across the rooftops. If this was the ‘big’ city, I was a giant. Not that I had seen many big cities, but I had seen Albany once. And Washington, D.C. Binghamton didn’t come close.
The sergeant was still there at my side, my little hand buried in his big paw. He was murmuring the same words over and over to me, that I was safe, Matt was coming, and he would not let anyone take me anywhere.
The ED was busy, but I was wheeled into a small curtained-off alcove where they lifted me onto the bed, cut off my clothes and packed me with warm blankets. Voices talked quickly and loudly over my head. Seemed like a gazillion people were in the tiny space with me. I heard one of them say that my temp was up to 96˚.
The next thing I remembered clearly was the sound of railings pulled up around me, but the warmth in which I was cocooned was more important to me than the questions of where I was or what had happened. I sighed, rolled over and buried my face in the pillows.
I heard his voice in my dreams. I murmured in surprise and delight. I spoke in a language that I knew I shouldn’t know, but the strange sounding syllables tripped off my tongue with the fluent ease of a native. I spoke in Gaelic, blessing my father and praying that his soul could find peace. He answered the same, his voice filled with joy.
"Mo chroí Daid, chaill mé tú. Beannaigh d'anam, b'fhéidir go bhfaighidh tú síocháin san aois seo, b'fhéidir go bhfaighidh tú síocháin san aois seo." I woke with his arms wrapped around me. He smelled the same – a hint of wool and spicy pine, cedar and gun oil. His blue eyes looked into my own, the clear depths shining with love and gladness, yet I could see the hint of despair and hopelessness that had plagued him this last year. He looked older, very thin and with dark patches underneath his eyes.
“Matt,” I chided gently. “Did you forget to eat while I was gone?”
He laughed shakily. “I forgot to breathe some days, boy. The sun had gone out, the oceans dried up and the world was no longer bright and beautiful. Because you were gone.”
His shoulders shook, and I reached to his face, stroking the smooth skin with the tips of my fingers. The tingle that jumped from my touch to his face was like a shock, but it didn’t hurt. It left behind a warm glow.
"Is breá liom tú, Matt," I said, and I didn’t need to translate.
“Who is the big State Trooper with the glaring eyes that won’t stop staring at everyone?” he asked. “I heard you were found at the Troop C barracks.”
“That Sergeant Delrosio. Promise stay you came. EMTs told I wacko scape clinic Hoop me blood tests. Tempe me Reacher Hall, no look me there.” I blew out a breath after the longest sentence I had spoken in a long time. And he understood me.
“What now?” I asked. “Home?”
“Now, I take you home to a safe house. Do you know where Tempe is or may have gone, Cris?”
I shook my head. “Not see he. Said I cata – Woke…yesterday?”
“Two days ago, Cris. You slept over 18 hours. Your core body temperature was down to 94˚, you had the beginnings of frostbite on your fingertips and toes from exposure. Whatever possessed you to run out without a coat or shoes? Not very well prepared this time,” he teased.
I was silent, remembering the awesome horse that had rescued me and died for it. “Took opp present self,” I shrugged. I switched to Gaelic, the words flowing effortlessly as my English did not.
“I don’t remember anything past those two EMT drivers taking me away in the van. The big man, he looked like a cop. They called him Lynch. He killed the other passengers, the patients. He cut off their heads while they were still alive, like they were cockroaches or something. The blood! The blood shot everywhere, it covered the side walls, the ceiling, the floor! All over my face like I was painted in it! I couldn’t stand anymore,” I gasped, sick of the horror. “My brain just…went away.”
“The police found both transport drivers murdered and dumped in the swamp.”
“Lynch let them go. They drove off in an old jeep. We were in a Subaru. They drove off alive,” I said.
“Did you catch their names? What did they look like?”
“Just Lynch. They all looked sorta the same. Like Clovis and Twin. Family, maybe. Tempe said there were a lot of cousins and in-laws.”
“The men who were pulled from the swamp weren’t related. Came from Virginia and Florida. Nor did they look-alike. They must have been the real transport team, disposed of by Lynch or the others,” he mused. “Do you remember where they dumped the van and left you?”
“No. It was just some dirt road at a logging site. An excavator dug a trench and buried the bodies and the van together. Matt will my English come back?”
“I’m sure it will, Cris. Look how far you’ve come. If you can speak Gaelic this perfectly, you can do the same with English, too.”
He went to the corner cabinet and pulled out a plastic bag from a store I had never heard of, it was called Plato’s Closet.
Inside the bag were new clothes. I stared at them and then, at him. My mouth widened in a reluctant grin. They were girl’s outfits. Dresses, leggings. A pretty coat in gag-me pink with fake fur on the cuffs and hood. Winter boots lined with fake white fur. A wig of dark brown hair in long braids that was attached to a hat. Mittens. A backpack in purple with that silly cat plastered all over it. Hello Kitty, it was called. I hated it.
Matt locked the door and helped me into the outfit. Thank God he knew where it all went. It was a pale lavender knit dress with black lace leggings. Matching purple socks that went over the black lace and folded down on my ankles. Slip-on winter boots.
I still hadn’t grown much, everything fit loosely as if he hadn’t been too sure what size I might have grown to. It felt weird and looked even weirder when I saw myself in the big mirror over the sink.
The dark hair made my eyes look bigger and the purple of the dress made my blue eyes look deep violet. I looked like a girl, a really pretty one. I gagged. Which was just plain gross. Embarrassing.
“What happens when I have to pee?” I whispered.
“You go in the ladies’ room and pull everything down,” he said matter-of-factual. “With me standing outside the door.”
“Okay.” I took his hand and he squeezed mine tightly. “Are you kidnapping me?”
“Yes. I’m not letting you out of my sight again, Crispin Lacey. You ready?” I nodded. “Just walk out with me. No one is looking for a little girl with braids. We figured that was how Tempe moved you around.”
“Sergeant Delrosio?”
“He went back to his station when I convinced him that you would be safe with me. Later this afternoon, the Trust Lawyers are coming to interview you and decide where to place you in protective custody. We must be gone before they get here. Along with the FBI and the local cops.”
“Okay.”
I followed him out as he unlocked the door. We left the room empty, taking the bag with my hospital gown. He had removed all the prices, and size tags before he’d carried the clothing in, leaving nothing behind for the police to track down.
We walked briskly down the hallway toward the North Tower where he took me across a pedestrian bridge-way that connected the main hospital with the Decker building and the cafeteria.
We took that elevator down to the street level next to Harrison and out the back entrance. A non-descript double-cab pickup was parked out front, the engine idling. It was colored light tan, no chrome, no four-wheel drive, nothing fancy although the windows were blacked out.
Matt went up to the passenger door, opened it and lifted me onto the bucket seat. I recognized the face of the driver.
“Jake!”
“Cris,” he smiled, and I saw the faint touch of Mr. Fitzsimmons behind his wide grin. “It’s so good to see you, buddy. That is, if you are Cris?”
I hugged his neck. Spoke English. “I me. Matt made me.”
“Well, get in and close the door. We have a long ride ahead of us,” he said. So, we did. I buckled up, seat-belted between the two men I loved most in the whole world. Jake gave a running commentary of the last year’s search for me. Matt added to it, downplaying his own helplessness as he spiraled into a deep depression when he could not find me. He promised me that he had never thought of quitting or harming himself.
Even though I had just slept for over eighteen hours, I fell asleep in the truck and stayed asleep until we reached the Mass coast with a huge mansion on the beach that Jake said was Matt’s childhood home. I stared at it with my mouth hanging open.