Free Lost Cargo by Hollister Ann Grant, Gene Thomson Page B

today and we’ll be at the office for hours so I’m bringing something for us to nibble on. That book’s in the living room. Don’t get coffee on it.”
    The unopened
Washington Post
sat on the breakfast table. How many newspapers did she take? Another shooting on Capitol Hill. The Redskins and the Cowboys playing at one. He ignored the headlines and thumbed through the city section. The murder they witnessed on Newark Street didn’t make the paper.
    “Lisa looked great last night,” she said, kneading the dough. “After they settle in, she can take the Metro and forget about her car.”
    He sized up his mother’s perfectly combed hair, her designer sweatshirt, and spotless running shoes that never left the gym. “What do you think about UFO s?” he threw out.
    She laughed. “Where did that come from?”
    “No reason, just asking.”
    “Some people want to believe in Santa Claus the rest of their life,” she replied and shaped the dough into a loaf. “When I was a kid I thought Mickey Mouse was real.”
    “Mickey Mouse is real. He’s a classic cartoon.”
    “Come on, Travis. You know what I mean.”
    He opened a bag of potato chips. “How about crop circles, those patterns they find in English fields? Some people think UFO s make the patterns when they land.”
    “People make those patterns at night with boards. You’re smart. You’re not that gullible. It all has to do with advertising.” She washed her hands and reached for a towel. “People make up these ridiculous stories because they want to sell you something. They probably make money off crop circle tours. It’s the same with haunted houses. The haunted houses on the travel channels are always inns, hotels, and bed-and-breakfasts.”
    She turned around, gave him an odd smile as though she wasn’t quite sure about him anymore, and picked up her purse. “I’m going to run out for a couple of things. And get yourself some breakfast. Don’t just eat potato chips.”
    The minute she left, he called a cab.
    Twenty minutes later, he swung by his house for his cell phone and paid the cab to wait, worried that Lexie would give up and leave the cafe. Foley spun in a circle when he opened the door.
    “No, come on, Foley, I can’t take you for a walk right now,” he said, ran upstairs, took a fast shower, changed clothes, found his phone, and ran downstairs again. Annie and Monroe’s voices rose from the basement apartment, arguing about something.
    Lexie was waiting at the same marble table in Bustelo and looked glad to see him. “Got it,” he told her and patted his coat.
    They circumvented Buchanan House, walked to the next block, and entered Rock Creek Park behind a condominium on Tilden Street. He could still see Buchanan House through the trees and felt relieved when its stone walls passed out of sight.
    The weekend had brought people out. Every few minutes they passed hikers and joggers. The laughter of families echoed through the trees. The forest seemed safe near the city, but the voices faded and died out as they went deeper into the woods. Travis grew more and more on edge and questioned their sanity. He kept the gun out at his side.
    The sporadic rain over the past week had soaked the land. The creek had spread beyond its banks and formed swampy brown pools under slippery leaves. It would be hard to run if something happened, and there were too many places to hide. The ground rose and fell, concealing whatever lay over the next ridge.
    “Maybe we should call Burke,” Lexie said.
    He shook his head. “That thing might hear us, too.”
    They stopped talking. The sun hung like a gray pearl in the overcast sky and began its descent into afternoon. The muddy creek whispered through the gorge. He expected to see the socks they’d hung in the brush every time they took a turn in the path. But although they followed the creek for hours, they couldn’t find the black triangle again.
    Lexie turned around with a desperate look. “There was