Lost Contact (The Bridge Sequence Book One), Nathan Hystad [primary phonics books .TXT] 📗

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.

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