Shadow Dancer (The Shadow Series Book 1) (35 page)

* * *

Tristan lay awake in bed that night, unable to sleep as the snores from her brothers and cousin woke her up. They refused to let her sleep alone, and really, who could blame them? Their sister had been taken from them not once, but twice in
the past month. On her first night back, they tried to convince her to take a bunk in the much larger boys’ bedroom. When she refused, they all piled into her tiny room. They said it would only be for one night. But there they were, now on night seven of this peculiar sleeping arrangement. Closest to Tristan’s bed were Tommy and Blake who were sleeping opposite each other in blue sleeping bags on the floor. Meanwhile, the oversized Liam and Adam sprawled their long limbs out closer to the wall, and Shane, the poor nervous soul, slept sitting up at the locked picture window, latch key dangling from his left hand. She peered around the room, watching as the covers rose and fell with each breath, snores echoing loudly throughout the room. There was no way around it: Tristan was safe whether she liked it or not. She loved her brothers and cousin tremendously, but somehow she thought if she could deal with a neurotic, gun wielding mad man, then she could face a night alone in bed.

Tristan was convinced that the sleeping arrangement was more for their benefit than her own. Besides, she wasn’t getting much sleep these days, anyhow. Fed up with lying still, she kicked the covers off her legs as she tried to determine where she could step without treading on someone and waking them up. She reached her left leg over Tommy while holding on to the bed, then pulling the rest of her body with her, just narrowly missing Blake’s foot with her own.  She slinked through the ajar door and into the dark hallway, escaping the snores of her tiny bedroom.

She meandered down the hallway, her hand sliding along the smoothly
painted walls, fingers gliding along the wainscoting. She glanced at the family pictures that hung delicately on the wall. She had seen them a million times before, but now they had meant so much more. Just a week ago, she thought she would never see any of them again, especially Jack whom she had presumed to be dead. Housed in the frames of assorted shapes and sizes were the images of the people she loved most. Smiling groups at birthdays and sporting events, Uncle Frank and Grandpa cutting down the family Christmas tree last winter, Tristan and Jack on horseback, riding through the orchard, Aunt Bridgette smiling as she put the Thanksgiving turkey in the oven (The very same turkey that was burnt to a crisp and had the family eating at Denny’s). The walls were lined with memories, and for the amount of grief that Bernard Kendricks had put them through, they had some damn good ones. Regardless of all their flaws, she was so fortunate to have her family. Jack, Bridgette, and Frank had made sure that the children had a safe harbor to grow up in, and Tristan acknowledged that they were better off not knowing what had happened to her mother. Some secrets are better left unsaid. Would their knowledge of the incidents of 1981 have changed anything? They may have been more aware, but overall Jack was satisfied that he had done what he could to protect the children. Finally, she came to the end of the hall and the last picture on the wall in a small oval frame. Catherine sat intently in bed cradling a newborn baby with ebony hair and a tiny purple bow adorning her head. Tristan. She touched the picture carefully as if testing to see if it was real. Catherine stared adoringly at her tiny bundle of joy. Not a trace of pain or sadness was evident on her face, just pure untainted adulation and joy. Catherine was clearly looking forward to a long life with her long-anticipated little girl – a life that was cut short by a selfish and obsessed man who couldn’t differentiate between reality and his delusions anymore. It made Tristan sick to her stomach. Now that she knew the truth, she was proud to call Catherine Mom.

From behind her she heard a wooden floor board creak, jarring her train of thought. Frank stood leaning against the wall, still dressed in his work clothes, arm in a sling, looking tired and pensive. Even his voice sounded strained.

“2:57 A.M…. Going for a stroll?” Frank asked with a smirk. Tristan glanced at him with an amused half smile, as she shook her head no.

“Okay, kid?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Me either, then I heard footsteps in the corridor, but it was only you.”

Frank, with a tired smile, motioned his head towards the stairway that led downstairs.

“Come on, let’s go raid the refrigerator.”

Tristan followed her uncle downstairs, who was still nursing his shoulder
.
She took the half-eaten apple pie out of the refrigerator and a pint of vanilla bean ice cream out of the freezer and plopped them both down on the kitchen table, followed by two spoons and two ceramic plates. As she started dishing out the food, Frank appealed to her.

“You need to stop being so hard on yourself. If Mrs. Mitchell gave you a pass on the assignment, I think you should take it.”

Tristan sighed heavily as she brought her eyes up from the ice cream carton to her uncle.

“No one is going to think any less of you for not doing it.”

“I have an obligation to do it.”

“You have no such obligation. The man who assigned you that project –”

“Took my mother’s life and would’ve taken mine too.”

“You’ve been through a horrible ordeal. Now, I already know that you are going to be a stubborn mule like your father, and your aunt, and your grandfather, but hear me out. It’s okay to take it easy on
yourself for once. Slide into school work slowly.”

“At the beginning of all this. I thought my mother had left us. I still don’t understand why he lied. Why didn’t he tell us that she was dead?”

“Something you have to understand about your father is that he loved your mother very much, and he is still to this day coming to grips with her death. He wouldn’t talk about it at all, and when Liam and Tommy began to ask where she was, all he would say was, ‘She is gone.’ Nothing more.”

“I think I know what I am going to do.”

“And I am sure whatever you decide will be fine. So, tell me, why are you having trouble sleeping?”

Tristan hesitated, unsure if she wanted to tell her uncle exactly what kept her up at night.

“You can tell me. I’ve been through war. I can handle what you say.”

She sighed.

“Every time I close my eyes, I see his face.”

Frank scratched the side of his face as he grimaced.

“Do you know what I see when I close my eyes at night?”

Tristan, looking somber, shook her head no.

“Your father’s face when he realized you were gone. It was the look of pure terror. In that one moment, Kendricks took the heart of him.”

In that moment, Tristan realized that she wasn’t the only one who
was traumatized by Kendricks’ recent actions. It affected everyone. Frank couldn’t sleep. Her brothers and cousin, though they knew Kendricks was dead, were still afraid of losing her again. Bridgette paced almost constantly and was vigilant about keeping all the doors and windows locked. Meanwhile, Angus barely left the guest house. Just earlier today Angus said, “I don’t want to live in a world where a man’s family isn’t even safe in their own home.” Moira insisted that everyone would be okay and spent her days baking, a habit she had learned from her mother. In the mind of Moira and her dearly departed mother, Siobhan, nothing cures heartache and unease quite like freshly baked goods.

“Thanks for the talk, Uncle Frank. There is something that I have to do.”

Frank watched Tristan walk off, pensive on the surface, but he could tell something was brewing underneath. She would be okay. They all would, with time.

Chapter Twenty

Unfinished Business

October 24, 1997

Elkhart, PA

The Morrows arrived at school late that day. When they finally arrived at 9:02 A.M., they were informed by the school secretary that Mrs. Mitchell had moved the presentations into the auditorium, and they had already begun. Hurriedly, they rushed down the
hallway, rolled up poster boards under Tommy, Blake and Shane’s arms. Behind them Tristan ran empty-handed with her book bag over her shoulder.

Bursting through the double doors of the auditorium, they scrambled to find a seat. Mrs. Mitchell, who was standing at the front of the auditorium sitting on the steps to the stage, attempted to organize her students. Seeing Tommy walking down the side aisle to the front of the auditorium, she waved to him and showed them where to sit.

The audience was comprised of an assortment of parents, faculty members with a spare period, and Vice Principal Irwin herself. Everyone filed rowdily but neatly in the auditorium, spaced out sporadically throughout the hall behind Mrs. Mitchell’s students. Mrs. Mitchell wanted this to be a true public speaking opportunity for her students, so she invited colleagues and sent letters out to all parents asking for at least one parent of each student to be present when their child did their presentation. She even invited her husband, fully clad in leather with a biker’s helmet hanging from his left hand, to be a spectator. As a result, the noise level had risen to maximum levels, with excited and friendly voices greeting each other warmly.

Mrs. Mitchell tried to get everyone’s attention, rowdy students continued to talk over one another, parents waved, teachers chattered. Mrs. Mitchell, getting annoyed, pointed to her biker boy husband who stood up, put two grimy fingers into his mouth and whistled loudly. Smirking in amusement, Mrs. Mitchell clapped a little for her husband. Immediately everyone went quiet, staring at the long haired, leather clad man standing at the front of the auditorium.

Quietly parents began to whisper to each other:

“Is that her
husband
?!”

“Look what the cat drug in.”

“Should we alert the police?”

“Thank you, Mr. Mitchell. Okay everyone, we’re going to get started. When I call your name, please come up to the stage. We have a variety of equipment available including a microphone, overhead projector, VCR, whatever you need. All right, let’s get started. It will help your presentation if you bring your subject up to the stage while you are presenting. Just an FYI, we’re just going to go in any order… Jessica, you’re up.”

One by one, the students went up to the stage showing off their projects that they had worked so hard on. Fluorescent poster boards with photos, achievements, and the subject’s name in big bold letters. Some brought props while others, you could clearly tell had thrown theirs together at the last moment. One student even had his dad up on stage confirming facts and dates.

The first of the family to go up on stage was Shane. Clumsy and embarrassed, he dragged his neon green poster board up to the stage. As Shane meandered onto the stage, Jack Morrow crept into the back of the auditorium walking slowly with a cane, gingerly nursing his hurt knee. Quietly he took a seat next to Joe Piedmonte and watched intently as his nephew walked sheepishly up to the stage. Immediately in front of Jack, Bridgette was sitting taking pictures of the stage as Frank sat, looking tired, next to her.  Shane unfolded the poster board and secured it on the tripod, before turning around with a mischievous look on his face.

“Okay, people, let’s get this crazy train rolling. You all know me, I’m Shane Kilpatrick. Class clown, resident redhead, and number fifteen on the Steeplechase Mustangs.” The audience clapped politely, while Shane’s fellow teammates cheered him on.

“So I was supposed to do my assignment on my Mom, and I didn’t want to hurt her feelings so you’ll be learning a little more about her today. Hey, Mom, can you come up here?”

Bridgette went red in the face, Jack and Frank meanwhile had to contain themselves from breaking out into laughter. Bridgette quickly walked up to the stage, embarrassed over her still-wet hair from her late wake up and her lack of make-up. Standing awkwardly next to her son, who now towered over her, she muttered at him under her breath. “Make this quick and painless!”

“So, everybody, this is my mom. Bridgette Kilpatrick. She was born Bridgette Siobhan Morrow and she was born at the Morrow Manor on October 30, 1960. She is the youngest of four children. She was a bit of nerd in school, always got straight A’s. I know
nothing
at all about that. Anyway. She was a student here at Steeplechase. There is some award out in the hallway with her name on it for a science challenge from back in 1976, so yeah, go Mom!”