Free The Reunion by Curt Autry

few miles, Hispanic faces stared blankly at the passing cars from the porches of shabby old farmhouses or from the cinderblock stoops of double-wides. Dunlevy made a mental note to check with immigration. He was always on duty.
    The town had three stoplights, a Hardee’s, a Texaco, a Piggly Wiggly, and many vacant turn-of-the-century brick buildings that had once housed thriving mom-and-pop businesses in the downtown district.
    Although the signs simply read WASHINGTON , the natives almost always referenced it as LITTLE WASHINGTON . It struck Dunlevy as odd. Surely no one confused this tiny coastal burg with the nation’s capital.
    Lakeland Avenue had no sidewalks but plenty of massive pines and oak trees chock-full of Spanish moss. The entire street was a classic example of 1940s Eastern Shore architecture: wood-frame houses on cinderblock foundations. All of the structures had large front porches and metal roofs in various stages of disrepair. The lawns and gardens, however, were meticulously kept, a trademark of neighborhoods dominated by senior citizens. Number 104 was one of the few homes on the street with a fresh coat of paint.
    Dunlevy gave his partner a shake. “Wake up, we’re here.”
    Franklin opened his eyes, blinking hard to focus. “You sure this is it?” he asked.
    Dunlevy shook his head and smiled. “Let’s go,” he said as he eased out of the car and stretched his tall frame.
    As Dunlevy was about to knock, the screen door on the front porch opened. A tiny woman with white hair, a green housedress, and a broom and dustpan stepped out.
    â€œHello,” the agent said with a smile as he flashed his ID.
    â€œHello yourself,” the old woman replied.
    â€œI’m agent Martin Dunlevy. This is agent Franklin. We’re here to see Professor Hudson. Is he in?”
    The weathered kitchen door creaked open before she could answer. Professor Derek Hudson stood in the entryway. “I see you’ve met Mother,” he said, forcing a smile. “Did you have any trouble finding the place?”
    Dunlevy returned his grin. “No. Your directions were on the money.”
    â€œGood. Come in.”
    Hudson escorted them into a dimly lit parlor crowded with antiques and photographs. Franklin lingered in the hallway to examine a black-and-white framed picture of a little boy standing at the wheel of a ship. His eyes darted up and down the wall. All of the photographs were of Derek Hudson at various stages of his life.
Only child,
he thought to himself.
    Dunlevy dropped into a leather chair, not waiting for the others to sit. “A lot of people are looking for you, professor,” he said.
    Hudson looked away. “I know. That’s why I came here. Those were my friends who were killed Saturday night. I’m not up to answering any questions.”
    â€œI know it’s not easy.”
    â€œI feel so responsible,” Hudson said. “Those men and their wives wouldn’t have been there if it wasn’t for me.”
    Dunlevy and Franklin exchanged an uneasy glance. “Do you have any idea who would do this?” Franklin asked.
    Hudson’s face was now buried in the palms of his hands. Slowly he looked up at them, his eyes glazed and hallow. “How’s Rolf?” he asked, ignoring their questions. “I keep calling Duke, but they won’t say.”
    Franklin thumbed through his notepad. He had the names and condition of each survivor. “He’s an old man. I don’t think he’s going to make it.”
    Dunlevy interrupted. “You mentioned something to Sally Jamison about Rolf not being the lone German survivor.”
    He shrugged. “Yes, I guess she just assumed the nine who attended were all of the survivors. There were twelve, actually.”
    â€œSo where are the other three?” Franklin asked.
    Hudson let out a sigh. He placed a hand over his forehead and let it run down over the bridge of his