Centralia (8 page)

“Because they died and were buried.” She didn’t say it without feeling; she wasn’t cold like that. But Amy had always been
matter-of-fact. It was one of the qualities that made her a great psychologist and researcher.

“Only I don’t believe that. Not anymore. I’m not even sure I ever believed it.” He downed the remaining coffee in the cup. “Then these three guys show up, break into my home. They had guns. Looks like they meant to kill me.”

Amy leaned in. “But why?”

“I don’t know.”

“You must have done something, known somebody, made enemies somewhere. Something. Did you tick anybody off? Cheat somebody?”

“No. Absolutely not.” At least not that he could remember. Not that he could even trust his own memory anymore. So he stuck to what he could be sure of. “You know me. Am I the type to make enemies? Those kind of enemies?”

She took the latte cup in both hands. “Of course not.”

“There was one thing, though. That guy at your house.”

“Baldy.”

“Yeah. I recognized him from somewhere.”

“Where?”

“I can’t put my finger on it. I know I’ve seen him before, though.” He didn’t want to tell her about the flashback. The gunshots. The ski mask. Not until he figured out where his memories were coming from and what and who they involved.

“So where do we go from here?”

“Centralia.”

“But we don’t know anything about the place
 
—not what it is or where it’s located.”

Peter pushed back his chair and stood. “Then we’d better find out.”

The contact had phoned him one last time, another unfamiliar voice from another unfamiliar number. It was a man again, deep, raspy voice with a slight Southern drawl. Maybe North Carolina, maybe Virginia. They were taking extra precautions this time, following additional steps to check on him and guide him along. Making sure he did his job. But Lawrence didn’t need them to hold his hand. He was well-versed in what he was about to do. Their lack of confidence in him only served to heighten his level of irritation.

After clicking off the phone and dropping it into a cup holder in the center console, he cranked the radio louder than usual. Perry Como was in the middle of crooning “Can’t Help Falling in Love.”

Lawrence relaxed in the seat of the Lincoln and maintained
a steady speed. He used music to focus himself, and he needed to focus. While he had no doubt he could take Patrick, he still needed to respect his old friend. Patrick’s abilities were unmatched by many; he’d always shown promise, carried so much potential. When he failed to become all that was expected of him, the disappointment around the agency was palpable. For months everyone paid the price for Patrick’s failure. The director was furious and intolerable and wanted to make sure a similar breakdown never happened again.

Lawrence steered the Lincoln into the parking lot of an empty warehouse and next to a receiving dock. The place looked like it had been abandoned for years. Weeds, knee-high and thick as a finger, poked up through cracks in the asphalt. The block walls of the building were cracked and stained with rust from the metal roofing and rainspouts. The concrete foundation had crumbled at one corner, causing the building to sag in that area.

Leaving the car, Lawrence moved on foot around the corner of the warehouse, down the short alleyway, and to the street, sticking close to storefronts and staying in the shadows of overhanging roofs. Running his hand over his head and retrieving the handgun from its holster, he quickened his pace. The café was just a block away.

Peter headed over to the woman at the table across the room, the magazine reader with the beret and scarf. Late twenties, with smooth skin, dark-brown hair, and large, innocent, dark eyes. As he neared, she appeared to not notice him. She sipped at her iced coffee through a straw but kept her eyes on the magazine the entire time.

Approaching her, he said, “Excuse me, ma’am.”

She looked up, not startled that a complete stranger would approach her in the coffee shop but rather surprised that she hadn’t seen him coming, so engrossed was she in her magazine. “Yes?”

“Hi. I know this is a strange request, but might you look something up for us on your phone? A friend recently mentioned a place we’ve never heard of. Can you help us out? We’re both still in the dark ages with dumb phones.”

She glanced at Amy, seated across the café, and smiled. It was a nice smile, friendly, warm, welcoming. This was a woman who naturally assumed the best in people. “Sure. What’s the name of it?”

“Centralia.”

The woman reached for her phone and tapped the screen. “Centralia. Hm. Never heard of it either. Is it the name of a town?”

He had no idea. “I think it is.”

Her fingers went to work on the screen, and within seconds her eyes were scanning back and forth. “Sure is. Looks like it’s a town in Pennsylvania. It says Centralia is a near ghost town. Its population has dwindled from over one thousand residents in 1981 to its current ten as a result of a mine fire burning beneath the town since 1962.” She tapped the phone several more times with her index finger. “Interesting. Over the years they’ve made several attempts to put the fire out but have had no success. In 1981 a twelve-year-old boy fell into a sinkhole and nearly died.”

So it was a town. But was he supposed to recognize the name? What connection did Karen and possibly he have with a town in Pennsylvania? And what about this town could have brought hit men to his home? It still meant nothing to him. He now had a town in Pennsylvania, a ghost town, burning for decades, but nothing more to go on. No hook that affixed the town to either himself or Karen.

He smiled at the woman. “That is interesting. Thank you. Can I ask one more thing of you?”

“Sure.” She looked at him expectantly.

“I’m sorry. I know this is all very intrusive and I’m interrupting your reading.”

She shook her head and smiled. “No, no. Don’t apologize. This is fascinating. I love learning new things, especially little factoids like this. Now I can wow all my friends by telling them about Centralia, the burning town.”

Peter leaned forward. “Thank you so much. Can you pull up a map of the town’s location in Pennsylvania? Just out of curiosity. I was born in PA and have never heard of it. I’m interested to see where it is.”

“Absolutely.” Her fingers went to work again, and in short time she handed him the phone. “There you go. Looks like, true to its name, it’s near the center of the state.”

“Sure does,” Peter said. He handed the phone back to her. “Thanks. You’ve been a big help.”

“Where were you born?” the woman asked, putting the phone in her purse.

“Near the PA–Maryland line, little town called Fairfield. I was actually born in Gettysburg Hospital.”

“Interesting,” she said. “I grew up in western PA. Went to Pitt, then got married and moved here. My husband is from Vermont.”

“Well,” Peter said, “from one Pennsylvanian to another, thank you for your help.”

She smiled wide, and those big, amicable eyes twinkled in the café’s lighting. “Glad I could be of help.”

Peter turned away from the woman and glanced out the large plate-glass windows that made up the café’s front facade. Stepping
up onto the sidewalk, just as casually as if he were out shopping on a Sunday afternoon and had decided to take a break for a coffee, was the bald gunman from Amy’s house. In his right hand, keeping it close to his thigh, he held his handgun. He’d found them. But how? Pulse suddenly racing, adrenaline flooding his arteries, every nerve fiber, every sense on high alert, Peter turned to the woman who had just so kindly offered her assistance and said, “Get down. Under the table.”

She must have seen the intensity in his eyes because after a quick glance out the front window, she slid off the seat, squatting beneath the table.

Peter hurried across the café to Amy.

Her eyes were wide and worried, her lips parted. “What’s going on? What’s the matter?”

Peter took her by the arm. “Quickly. Back door.”

She slid her chair away from the table and stood without hesitation.

But even as they left the main seating section and entered the area behind the counter, the gunman pushed through the front door.

Peter made eye contact with the woman taking orders and running the register; he presumed she was the owner of the small establishment. There was uncertainty in her eyes and a spark of fear. “Get down and stay down,” he said.

Like the dark-haired woman in the beret at the table, she obeyed immediately and dropped to her knees.

Peter shoved Amy ahead of him into the kitchen. “Out the back, get the truck started. If he comes out first, gun it and get out of here.” Silently cursing himself for leaving one of the handguns in the car, Peter drew the other from the waist of his jeans and passed it to her. “Just in case.”

Amy ran through the kitchen and disappeared out the back door. Peter ducked behind a stainless steel shelving unit, not expecting it to conceal him indefinitely but looking for any advantage he might gain. Moments later the gunman entered the kitchen. Peter had to act quickly. The owner was probably already calling the police, and while they would be helpful in a situation like this, he wasn’t ready yet to engage the cops in his current predicament. They would want to take him to their offices for questioning and would keep him occupied for hours. They’d want him to stay in town so he’d be easily located for further questioning. He could be detained for days, and he felt in his bones, in the core of the fabric of his soul, that staying in one spot, easy to locate, would be disastrous.

When the most opportune moment came, Peter swung out from behind the shelves and caught Baldy by surprise. He brought his elbows down on the big man’s arms, knocking the handgun loose and sending it sliding across the tiled floor and under the boxy stainless steel commercial oven.

Baldy reacted quickly, shoving his elbow toward Peter’s abdomen, but Peter anticipated the attack and sidestepped, simultaneously landing a forearm across his rival’s face, catching him across the jaw and cheekbone. The bone-to-bone contact was solid, and Baldy staggered back but quickly regained his bearings. Setting his feet in a wide stance, he opened his powerful hands, forming them into claws, chuffed like an annoyed bear, and charged at Peter. The sheer size of the man was enough to intimidate even the most fearsome professional wrestler. He had Peter by at least forty pounds, most of that muscle. He was nimble for his size, too, and well-trained. Not clumsy and lumbering like most men carrying his bulk.

Baldy came at Peter swinging. Each jab and punch had a precision to it that spoke of years of training and use. But Peter blocked
nearly every blow and managed to get a few in himself, landing them to Baldy’s face, neck, and upper chest. But the big man was resilient and absorbed each impact like he was made of rock.

The fight took them across the kitchen to the prep area, where Baldy reached for and grabbed a utility knife. He squared up, slightly crouched, feet wide, and sneered at Peter. A trickle of blood ran from one nostril to his upper lip, and he had a small cut over his right eye that leaked blood as well. “I don’t want to use this, Patrick.”

Patrick. The name rang familiar to Peter, but he didn’t know why. It was like a voice calling from a distant location, a voice he’d heard before but was now unable to tie to a face or a name.

“Do I know you?” Peter wasn’t interested in having a heartfelt conversation with his opponent, and he had no expectations of the two of them leaving the café the best of friends, reunited after a long separation, but he was hoping to gain even a morsel of information, another piece to the jigsaw puzzle.

Without answering, Baldy lunged, but Peter had anticipated his move. He sidestepped the jab, grabbed the man’s arm, and twisted it up and out. Spinning to his left while still grasping his assailant’s wrist, Peter brought his elbow down hard across Baldy’s upper arm. The blow would have broken a normal man’s arm but not Baldy’s; his bones must have been infused with concrete. Baldy did grunt and curse and drop the knife, but Peter didn’t let go. Instead, he continued twisting the arm until it was behind Baldy, then ran the big man across the open space between the prep area and the grill.

Just before ramming the grill, Baldy lifted both feet and planted them against the grill’s upper edge. He pushed hard, doing a leg press and driving Peter back.

Peter nearly lost his balance. If he went to the floor, Baldy
would be on top of him like a bear on a salmon, and he wouldn’t stand a chance under the bigger man’s weight. Those fists would rain down like chunks of rock and pummel Peter into mash.

Peter stumbled backward and reached for the prep counter, steadying himself against its edge before he toppled over. But in doing so he lost the grip on Baldy’s arm, and the big man yanked himself free and turned to face Peter.

“That’s it, Patrick,” Baldy said. He was panting, and sweat glistened on his head. Bright-red blood now smeared along the right side of his face. Crouched like a linebacker, the man shifted his eyes from Peter’s hands to his feet and back again. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

Peter said nothing. He didn’t remember the man
 
—not exactly. There was a familiarity about his face, but Peter wasn’t sure if that was because of the flash memory he’d had or not. It could just be that his brain was equating Baldy with the memory of someone who appeared similar. Yet the man seemed to know Peter . . . and was calling him Patrick.

Baldy shifted his weight and glanced around the kitchen. “Let’s call it a draw and we both walk away.”

But he didn’t mean it. Men like him never meant it. It was a trick to get Peter to let down his guard. “Why are you calling me Patrick? What does that mean?”