“Al. Alfred Forrest,” Sam said. He smiled at Jessie—now Connie, his beloved wife by any name.
“And what about this young man?” Dawson asked, bending down to Cameron.
Cameron had a serious look on his small face as he looked at Dawson. “I thought you were a hunter—you saved my life. I want to be Hunter.”
“Hunter? Hunter Forrest?” Jessie asked.
“Hunter,” Cameron said stubbornly, and Sam laughed.
“A hunter in the forest saved us. Jess, that’s what he wants. It’s a good name, a strong name, and the name he wants.”
Jessie looked at Dawson.
“It’s a great name,” she said.
From that day on, they were the Forrest family.
Al, Connie and Hunter.
And the names quickly became more real than those they’d been born with. And a new life, created with love and intention, became real, as well.
They became...themselves. Connie was able to retrain and become an art teacher. Al was able to write, and he was published.
They moved a few times, just to be safe. But the memory of their time in the commune faded through the years, though it always remained.
A nightmare that teased now and then...
Every day was a gift; the sun always burned a little brighter.
It scared Connie and Al a little, of course, when their son wanted to go into the military. But they didn’t stop him; he had really grown into a fine young man.
And they weren’t even surprised when he wanted to join the FBI. They’d been given the gift of life; in the end, they were proud when their son wanted to do whatever he could to give that gift to others.
15
They took turns driving, heading for I-75 quickly, stopping for dinner—which, they both realized, they could have eaten at the diner. But they were quick, taking only thirty minutes for food and time to refuel.
As they drove, Hunter told Amy they’d stay in Micanopy. While a small town itself, Micanopy had a few good hotels.
“Have you been there?” he asked Amy after they had eaten and were back on the way.
“I’ve been through, visiting friends who went to school in Gainesville,” she told him. “I can’t say I know it well. It’s an old town, right?”
He nodded. “Very old. One square mile, right in the heart of a rural area. The population is well below one thousand, though when you head southwest down to Maclamara, the population goes down to just a few hundred. Micanopy, though, is charming—rural, of course. Micanopy is the oldest midland town in Florida—dripping moss, narrow streets, pretty. Anyway, I still have a room at a historic inn there. It’s an old Victorian house that has been adapted. It’s a small place, but the inn does a good business what with college students and their parents and visitors.”
“You still have a room there?”
“I never checked out when I headed south. I was on my way the second I heard about your victim.”
“Ah.”
“Anyway, it’s a suite on the ground floor. You can have the bedroom. I’ll take the sofa.”
“I don’t mind a sofa.”
“I’m sure you don’t, but trust me, I don’t mean this in any chauvinistic way—I will be miserable if you don’t take the bedroom. Can’t help it—my mom raised me to be courteous.”
She smiled. “I don’t care where I sleep as long as I get a shower. I still feel as if I smell...like that cabin.”
“Me, too,” he agreed. “Showers. Even if we do get in at one or two in the morning.”
When they arrived, the night-lights that glowed around the place showed the charm of the Victorian building, with the large porch and its fine columns and the balconies above. The surrounding trees were all dripping moss beneath the moon.
Hunter used his key to enter the house and they paused in the old entry. The office—on the ground floor, right across from what was called “the Faulkner Suite”—was closed.
A curving staircase led to the rooms on the second floor. There was a parlor immediately in front, with the hall to the suite just to the side of it. The parlor had been decorated with Victorian furniture, fine upholstered chairs, a love seat and a “fainting” couch.
“This place is lovely,” Amy said approvingly.
“The suite is nice, too. These people did a great job renovating.”
They headed down the hall where he used his second key to open the door to the suite.
“Believe it or not,” he said, “within my federal budget. That’s what small-town life will do for you.”
She smiled, looking around. The suite didn’t offer a kitchen, but it had a wet bar with a microwave and little refrigerator. It was separated from the parlor area by a counter; the parlor had a sofa, wide-screen TV and small occasional tables, along with a dining table that would seat eight.
“Cool,” Amy approved.
“Hmm. Didn’t notice it before, but I don’t need the sofa—there’s a Murphy bed against the far wall. I’m all set.”
“You take first shower,” Amy told him. “That way, we can both settle in. I want to see what made the news—if the murders are still on national TV.”
“As you wish.”
Hunter headed into his room, and dug into his overnight bag.
A clean T-shirt and boxer shorts would do for decent sleep attire.
He showered quickly; it was late, and he knew they both needed sleep. Cops and agents went home sometimes; they split shifts. They slept.
They didn’t have to be on this the way that they were, going 24/7.
Well, he thought, maybe he did have to be on it the way that he was.
Amy didn’t. But she wasn’t a complainer, and she didn’t want off the case.
Despite his hurry, he scrubbed his hair. There had been a feeling the blood and tragedy of the cabin had lingered on them, as if it had been in the air and settled into them.
So he scrubbed, and scrubbed hard—but quickly.
Amy was in front of the television and she looked up as he entered the room.
“Nice boxers,” she noted.
“Hey, I’m a fan of the Marvel empire,” he told her.
His good boxers featured the Hulk. No wonder she was grinning.
She turned serious. “The murders are still on the news. It seems they’ve been attributed to cult activity, whether details have been kept back from the press or not.”