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

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.”

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