Back to You

Riptide Publishing

PO Box 1537

Burnsville, NC 28714

www.riptidepublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All person(s) depicted on the cover are model(s) used for illustrative purposes only.

Back to You

Copyright © 2017 by Chris Scully

Smashwords Edition

Cover art: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com/design.htm

Editors: Sarah Lyons; Carole-ann Galloway

Layout: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com/design.htm

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Riptide Publishing at the mailing address above, at Riptidepublishing.com, or at marketing@riptidepublishing.com.

ISBN: 978-1-62649-574-6

First edition

June, 2017

Also available in paperback:

ISBN: 978-1-62649-575-3

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Journalist Alex Buchanan has come home to the remote British Columbia town he grew up in, but only because his estranged father is dying. For Alex, the homecoming holds a mix of memories, mostly bad. The only bright spot is reconnecting with Benji Morning, the childhood friend he never truly forgot. As boys, the strength of their bond had frightened Alex. But now that he’s confident in his bisexuality, he’s drawn back to quiet, soft-spoken Ben.

Ben isn’t the same boy Alex left behind, though. His life has been overshadowed by the disappearance of his sister two decades earlier, and now a new break in the case threatens to undo the peace he’s worked so hard to attain.

As Alex struggles to repair the relationship with his father before it’s too late, he finds himself caught up in a twenty-year-old mystery, a story he never expected, and a shocking truth that could affect his and Ben’s future together.

To my parents and sister. You are the best family and support system anyone could ask for.

About Back to You

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Epilogue

Dear Reader

Acknowledgments

Also by Chris Scully

About the Author

More like this

Like any good writer, I’ve gone over my childhood in my mind so many times, searching for what went wrong, why Dad hadn’t fought harder to keep us all together instead of letting Mom bundle us off to Seattle. It was like he’d wanted us to go, couldn’t wait to be rid of us. Had he been depressed? Was it the alcohol? Was it me?

After a while, I forced myself not to care. It was better not to dwell on everything we’d left behind.

—From My Father’s Son by Alex Buchanan

There are people in your life who stick with you forever.

You might forget them for a while or push them to the back of your mind, but they are written on your skin like a tattoo, etched in your bones, in your blood, your very breath. They hold on and never let go. So much a part of you that you don’t even know they’re there.

Indelible.

Benji Morning was that person for me. It was why, twenty years after I’d last seen him, I was driving east along Highway 16, awash in recollections of that long, hot, bucolic summer of 1996 that had ended in such turmoil, instead of heading for the hospital. It was the summer I first felt those then-uncomfortable feelings that would define the rest of my life, the summer Benji’s sister ran away, the summer my once-happy family finally fell apart for good.

Twenty years apart is a long time. I don’t mean to give the impression that those years have been shit, or that I’ve been pining for the awkward, redheaded boy I once knew. There’s nothing shorter than a thirteen-year-old boy’s attention span, and by the beginning of ninety-seven, I was settled in a new school in Seattle, with a new group of friends to entertain me, girls to chase, and memories of our life in the wilds of British Columbia, of Benji in particular, fading faster than a pair of newly purchased blue jeans in the washer.

Life goes on, whether we want it to or not.

These were the thoughts flitting through my mind as I headed further into the Bulkley Valley in my rented Ford Explorer, the majestic Hudson Bay Mountain in my rearview mirror. It was only the first week of November, but the peaks were snowcapped and ready for ski season to begin. I wished I could blame my strange mood on the jet lag, on the altitude, on the fact it had taken me eighteen hours and four planes—each one successively smaller—to get here from New York, but I couldn’t. I’d been on edge since my sister, Janet, had called four days ago to say Dad was in the hospital, dying, and could I please come because he wanted to see me.

I’d like to say I booked the first flight to BC, but I didn’t. Dad certainly hadn’t wanted to see me at any point in the intervening years. We talked once or twice a year on the phone—brief, impersonal conversations—but I hadn’t seen him since shortly before I’d started grad school more than a decade ago. As far as I was concerned, he’d abdicated all parental responsibility the moment he let us go without a fight, and to be honest I was happy with that arrangement.

No, it wasn’t Dad, or even Janet, who’d brought me here. The truth was a little less flattering. In the end, it had been Brad, my editor, who had convinced me that it would be good for my career to chronicle my reunion for the Journal, the magazine that employed me.

But the minute I landed in Smithers this morning and got behind the wheel of my rental, it was my childhood friend Benji Morning who’d consumed my thoughts. Rather than calling Janet and going immediately to the hospital to see my dad, I turned in the other direction. Toward the place I’d once called home.

It was a compulsion I couldn’t ignore.

Truthfully, I hadn’t thought of Benji in years. I hadn’t let myself. I’d been far too busy growing up, having fun, working my ass off to build a name for myself as a journalist. And being away from him, from the intense connection we’d shared as kids, was easier.

Now everything was coming back, as if it all had happened only yesterday, and spawning this jittery, gaping hole in the pit of my stomach. The sensation only grew stronger the closer I got to Alton. I couldn’t explain it.

I needed to know where Benji was. What he’d done with his life. And if he was still in the area, I wanted to see my old friend again. If he would still speak to me, that was.

I should have stayed in touch. I should have swallowed my pride, reached out, and begged forgiveness for ignoring him so long.

Shoulda, woulda, coulda, as my ex-wife was fond of saying, usually with an exasperated roll of her eyes.

In hindsight, I suppose I could have Googled him, or found him on Facebook like any other long-lost friend, but I was already in motion, driving the extra hour east purely by instinct, as if Benji were my true north and I the needle on a compass.

Finding him was a long shot—it had been twenty years since Mom, Janet, and I had left BC, and the Mornings could have moved away—but folks in these parts never tended to go far, and my gut instincts, the ones that had served me well in my career, were too strong to ignore.

An early-winter mist hung low in the sky, stretching across the valley and only emphasizing my feeling of isolation as I drove. The Trans-Canada Highway unwound before me, not really a highway at all, but a two-lane, lonely blacktop carved out of the endless forests that pressed in on both sides. Most of the old growth is gone now, and what remains is tall and spindly, but make no mistake—this is pure wilderness; as dangerous as it is breathtaking. There are stretches, like this one, where it’s possible to drive for hours with no sign of civilization, and the vast emptiness was a little unnerving to my suburban senses. As a kid, the woods, the lakes, the abandoned logging camps and mines that dotted the region had been the best sort of amusement park, but I’d been gone a long time—replaced the towering lodgepole pines and Engelmann spruce with skyscrapers.

The rhythmic swoosh of the windshield wipers as they battled the falling mist was a comforting balm to my nerves. On my right, a weather-beaten billboard, nestled against the encroaching forest, made my skin crawl with gooseflesh as I passed: Hitchhiking—Is it worth the risk?

I shivered and turned the heater up another notch, mentally cataloguing my impressions for later. Brad would appreciate the local color when I filed my story.

With each passing mile, the memories grew thicker, swarming around me like gnats I couldn’t swat away. The burning sensation in my chest increased, and I reached for the roll of antacids I’d bought at the airport—definitely shouldn’t have had that last glass of airport wine at the stopover in Vancouver.

Finally, another sign leapt into view: Welcome to Alton. Pop. 3,200

Unlike the larger, regional center of Smithers, with its quaint chalet-style architecture and overpriced gastropubs for the ski crowd, Alton was a blue-collar resource town. It was nestled squarely between the two princes—Prince Rupert to the west, and Prince George to the east—in the midst of a bounty of natural resources. In its heyday, residents had flocked to work at the Hummingbird or Europa Mines, or at one of the many sawmills in the area.

My heart kicked as I saw the low, green slope of Mount Roddick to the north and the needle of its familiar radio transmission tower. I was close. That rocky terrain and thick woods had been my backyard, my playground, and Benji my fellow explorer.

A few minutes later, on the outskirts of town, I turned off the highway and onto a rural side road, surprising myself by remembering the way. A quarter mile after that, I made another left onto North Star Lane, and the pavement became oiled gravel that crunched beneath the tires. Back in 1996, there had been only two houses on this short, dead-end street—ours and the Mornings’. Benji and I had had the run of the place, zipping back and forth to each other’s house, playing one-on-one shinny in the street without having to worry about cars interrupting our game. The story was that some long-ago developer had bought the whole parcel, intending to build an exclusive enclave, only he’d gone bust after the first two slipshod houses.

Now as I slowed to avoid kicking up gravel, I saw someone had built an ugly chalet-style A-frame on the once empty lot at the end. My haze of nostalgia evaporated at the unwelcome reminder that not everything would be the same as I’d left it.

Fortunately, there was no need to wonder if the Mornings were still around. Their name was on the mailbox, spelled out in those black and gold, peel-and-stick letters you could buy for $1.99 in any hardware store. With a hitch in my chest, I turned into the long gravel drive.

The yellow clapboard ranch was just as I remembered. Sure, the siding was faded, the paint peeling in places, and the sloping front lawn more overgrown than I recalled, but considering it had been twenty years, surprisingly little had changed.

There were two vehicles in the driveway. I parked the Explorer behind a well-used silver GMC Jimmy 4X4 and a newer blue Jeep, and walked the rest of the way up the drive to the house. The crisp air was heavy with the scent of snow. I zipped up my jacket and wished I had brought warmer clothing. Then again, I wouldn’t be here long.

The large two-car garage nestled behind the low house snagged my attention. Benji’s dad had built it as his workshop in the year before he’d died, back before we had moved to the street. At some point since I’d been gone, windows and a door had been added to the second story, as well as a deck that was accessed by an exterior staircase. A neatly stacked cord of chopped wood wrapped one side of the garage, and the sweet smell of smoke in the air brought a lump of homesickness to my throat.

Reaching the front door of the house, I rang the doorbell and waited, my palms sweaty enough that despite the chill, I had to wipe them on my jeans.

Before too long, the inner door opened, and a suspicious face peered out. The stale odor of cigarette smoke wafted through the screen door.

I tried to hide my surprise. Angela Morning was about the same age as my mother, but she looked a decade older now. I might never have recognized her if it weren’t for the button she wore pinned to her cardigan. The button was printed with a photo, and it was the familiar young woman’s face smiling back at me that made my breath catch.

Yes? Mrs. Morning prompted.

I started out of my trance. Mrs. Morning? Hi, I doubt you remember me but—

Oh, finally. I knew you’d come, she growled with the gravelly voice of a long-time smoker.

You did?

Come in. She unlocked the screen door and stepped back so I could enter. "Are you from Dateline?"

Huh?

"48 Hours?"

"No, The New York Journal actually, but—"

I haven’t heard of that one.

We’re small, but reputable. Out of habit, I produced one of the business cards I always kept handy. But Mrs. Morning . . . The words crumbled to dust in my mouth as I trailed after her into the front room. It was like walking into the past. Same low-pile beige carpet, same blue velveteen overstuffed sofa. I almost expected twelve-year-old Benji to run out and greet me. But rather than instilling a sense of nostalgia, the hair on the back of my neck rose in unease.

My attention flew to the long wall between living and dining room, which was filled with photographs—more than I remembered. Two or three were of Benji as a kid, and my eyes lingered on them for a moment, and there hung Mr. and Mrs. Morning’s old wedding portrait, the only photo I’d ever seen of the late Samson Morning. But most of them were of Ben’s sister, Misty. Misty as a smiling child. Misty as a teenager, posing for the camera in that sweet yet sultry way I remembered—her nubile body beckoning you in, while her eyes, those cold, hard eyes, said you could look but never touch. Misty in her graduation cap and gown ready to take on the world.

She’s beautiful, isn’t she? Mrs. Morning murmured at my shoulder.

She is. And so young. Far younger looking than I remembered. It was a shock to recall that she’d only been seventeen when I last saw her. I’d known that of course, as she’d been Janet’s best friend, but she’d always seemed so much older, more mature. Misty Morning had lived up to every bit of her attention-grabbing name. In life—at least to my thirteen-year-old self—she’d been the pinnacle of femininity; an object of both lust and terror. Long legs, sweet tits. Big strawberry-blonde hair. And here she was, preserved in her youth forever.

There was no other way to describe it: this was a shrine.

Everyone said I was being overconcerned back then. That I was wasting their time. But I knew. A mother always knows.

I’m sorry, what— As I turned, my eyes landed on the stack of Missing flyers on the coffee table—similar to the ones I’d helped hand out in town in the weeks after Misty ran away—and put it all together. She never came home, I croaked, aghast. Twenty years later, Mrs. Morning was still looking for her runaway daughter.

Now things made sense. As a writer, I’d encountered my fair share of tragedies, but I’d never felt anything as strong as what I felt now in Mrs. Morning’s living room. The sadness was as thick and palpable as the cigarette smoke that hung in the air. I was afraid to breathe it in.

We’re holding a rally this weekend. Hoping to generate new tips and pressure the police into action, Angela said. Let me give you a button. She rummaged in a box next to the flyers and then thrust a button similar to the one she wore into my hands. Your timing is great. Maybe you can work the rally into your piece.

Piece? Mrs. Morning, I think there’s been—

Please, call me Angela. Let me put the kettle on for some tea.

No, Mrs. M— But she was gone before I could tell her that I’d only come in search of Benji. I strode toward the kitchen, intending to correct the misunderstanding, but halted when I saw the newspapers scattered across the dining room table. They were in the process of being clipped and carefully glued into a scrapbook, and the headline of the nearest one read, Missing girl’s case reopened.

All this time you never heard from her? I exclaimed. How is that possible?

You didn’t know? Mrs. Morning asked from the archway. She had lit a cigarette and now blew a trail of smoke from the corner of her mouth. Didn’t they fill you in? I always said Misty was no runaway. Two fishermen found her car near MacFarlane Lake a little over a week ago.

MacFarlane Lake? That was only fifty miles east of here, in the center of the valley. The whole area was a maze of lakes and swampland.

The memory of Misty’s white Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme seeped into my brain, coalescing like a slow-developing Polaroid. Calling it a shit-bucket would have been generous. I’d lost count of the number of times my dad had been over here, replacing parts and mending hoses just to keep it running. But Misty had driven it like it was a Jag and she a princess too good for the rest of us. I guess in this neck of the woods she had been.

I bought that car for her so she wouldn’t have to hitchhike. So she’d be safe, not like those other girls. Her voice cracked. Immediately I thought of the billboard along the highway, and a shiver raced up my spine. Twenty years and all this time, she’s been so close.

My heart broke at the pain in her voice. Mrs. Morning, I’m so sorry. I had no idea. A thunderous guilt wrenched my gut. If I’d stayed in touch, I would have known.

My baby’s still out there somewhere. She needs me. But ever since they found her car, the police won’t tell us a thing.

The journalist in me kicked in. So there was no sign of her?

They sent divers into the lake, brought out the dogs to search the swamp, but nothing turned up. She stubbed her cigarette into an already overflowing ashtray on the table. When will you start?

I’m sorry?

The interview. Will your crew be arriving soon? The rally’s on Saturday. It would make a good opener to your segment, wouldn’t it? We’re going to start here at the RCMP detachment and then form a convoy along 16 to Prince George. I’ve got at least a dozen cars signed up.

For the first time since I’d arrived, fire had leapt into her eyes. Shit. She thought I was here for the story. She had no clue who I was. Mrs. Morning—Angela—I’m not with a network . . .

Oh, right. A New York paper, wasn’t it?

It’s me. Alex Colville. I used to sit at this very pine table and do homework with Benji. But the words didn’t make it past my lips.

The name on my card was Alex Buchanan, Buchanan being my stepfather’s surname. If she hadn’t already recognized me, there was little chance she’d tie me to Alex Colville, her son’s best friend.