Sinister Motives

PrologueSnow was in the forecast in the town called White Pine, at least six inches to fall in the Adirondacks over the next couple hours. For now, though, only the threat of it hovered, gray, ominous clouds sinking ever closer to the cold ground. Such weather wasn’t unusual, given that it was February. The surrounding valley and jagged hills were already coated in a wintry mix of ice and snow, had been since before the holidays. Probably would remain this way into late March, maybe even April. Winter came to these northern parts early, and it left late. That didn’t stop Noah Sanders from attending a burial, even though it was only ceremonial in nature. The frozen ground was too hard to dig, so the remains of his only relative, the recently departed Barbara Sanders, remained in the careful care of Farrow & Son Funeral Home until the spring thaw, when she would be quietly interred. The details of how and when Noah didn’t want to know. Today marked his final goodbye, and in so doing, what he’d planned this past week was having her gravestone placed atop the plot he’d bought, a small granite block that would serve as her marker until she could finally join it in perpetual rest. He wished he, too, could be at rest, though not eternally. Just enough to bring a fresh calm to his upturned life. A week had passed since his mother had died, and he’d done very little but think about her final words to him. On her literal deathbed, confessing to an awful truth, if indeed what she spoke of could be defined by that word. There was no proof beyond what she’d spoken. But wasn’t that what final confessions were about, unleashing the last secrets of a life before death claimed you? A cleansing for them, dirtying his life in the process. “You wouldn’t have lied, that’s not possible, it wouldn’t make sense,” he said aloud. No one was around to hear him. In fact, the cemetery was devoid of all life. Even the bells of St. Mary’s were silent, as if to acknowledge the solemn moment between son and mother. If that, indeed, was what they were. Of course, she had raised him. He’d shared stories from school, told her about the home run he’d hit in baseball practice, embarrassed to tell her about the strikeout he’d suffered during the actual game, his life always a balance of telling her the good while avoiding the bad. He’d had a happy childhood, a more difficult segue into adulthood. While she had told him her secret, he hadn’t done the same. “Mom, I’m gay.” He said this aloud, too, at last. Words he’d never said to her. She must have known. Mothers always do. Aside from those high school prom dates, he’d never brought home a girlfriend. Not even in college, which he’d dropped out after two semesters, nor beyond to when he’d landed the line cook job at Shiner’s Diner, had there ever been a girl. Noah secretly experimented with other men. He’d enjoyed it, and while he’d never pursued any sort of relationship, there was no denying his attraction to the same s*x. He wasn’t ready to admit it, not to her, barely to himself. There were so many things he wasn’t ready for. Not her death, not this burial. Not being alone in the world. He had no siblings, no father either. And now if what she’d told him were true, no mother either. At least, not the one he’d always known. Bundled against the cold wind as it whipped through the cemetery, Noah kneeled in the snow, his gloved fingers grazing the engraved letters on the stone. He traced her name, Barbara Sanders, and for a brief second doubted whether that had been her name. Maiden or married, did it matter? If she’d truly done as she’d claimed, it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that she had changed her identity. She’d done as much to him. “I can only imagine you had a good reason for doing what you did,” he said. There was no response. She wasn’t there in body, much less in spirit. Between work and making the arrangements for her funeral, Noah had barely had time to think about the ramifications of what she’d revealed. With only a few friends in town, he’d skipped a formal funeral, instead having her remembered at a Sunday mass. Those friends had attended, as had a doctor and two nurses who had tried to ease her pain while the cancer ate away at her; eventually, inevitably, claiming her. The congregation had sung songs she’d loved, like “Be Not Afraid,” “Let There Be Peace on Earth,” and while the majesty had soared toward the stain-glass ceiling of the church, Noah had been struck by those ironic lyrics. He was afraid, and he was far from at peace. Thinking of her name brought thoughts of another name, shaking him worse than the cold. Hatcher. A family, unbeknownst to him a week ago, now dominating his thoughts. Because Barbara Sanders had claimed he belonged to them, whoever they were. She had stolen Noah as an infant, depriving them of their newborn son. Why? She’d spoken of the Hatchers in a fearful tone—calling them evil. Wasn’t stealing a baby the same, no matter the justification? “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” he said, again, aloud, as though his words held more impact that way. Again, no answer was forthcoming, not even one he could feel in his heart. His mother was silent, and she would remain that way for eternity. There was no more pain, not for her, for which he was thankful, but there were no more answers either, and that’s where his frustration threatened to consume him. He told himself he couldn’t remain at her grave for much longer. The cold was penetrating beneath his parka. He felt the first fall of flakes. He looked up to see a darkened sky. The forecast had been accurate. Might even be more than six inches on the way. Might be a blizzard. He had a decision to make, one for himself, because who else was there anymore? He had to find a level of serenity. One that would allow him to sleep through the night. Too many of them these last few days had found him staring out the window as the clock showed four in the morning. Restless, walking throughout the rooms of the house, feeling her presence everywhere, he asked himself: Did he just continue his life as expected, return to his job at Shiner’s Diner tomorrow, or did he take some time off? And what about the house? Should he sell it, or continue to live there? Or did he decide to do something drastic. Pursue the mystery of his real self? Noah Sanders found he couldn’t move, not right now. His mother’s grave held him in place, as though a hand was reaching up from the grave, grabbing at his pant leg. Clinging to him, or dragging him down to her world. Which was where? She’d led a gentle life, gone to church every week, a dedicated house cleaner, serving others. Not a greedy bone in her body, she was simply good at her job. She’d cared for him. She’d raised him. “I thank you for that,” he said. “Mom, I don’t understand what you’ve left me with. Why you waited until the end to tell me. You’ve left me with so much to think about. Do I want to know the truth of why you took me from what should have been my destined life? What would have been so bad had I remained with my birth family?” He wasn’t sure he could even speak their name aloud. “But there’s nothing more you can do. It’s all on me. You’ve left me alone, but also given me a chance to find another family. Why else would you have told me, if you didn’t expect me to go in search of them? What else could have been your motive?” The snow began to fall in earnest now, thick flakes coating the ground quickly. Noah took a step back, the first of many he would take in distancing himself from the woman known to him as Barbara Sanders. Another step, and another, but he couldn’t yet turn his back on her. Not until he nearly tripped over another grave stone. He stumbled, caught himself by grabbing the slippery top of it. His eyes fell upon the name. It was an ironic, but perhaps appropriate marker. Edward Miller. A man who had died twenty-seven years ago, and to whom his mother had been betrothed. For his entire life, he’d heard the story of the man’s tragic death, an expert hiker who had taken an unfortunate spill while climbing a peak here in the mighty Adirondacks. Eddie fell to his death, tragically leaving behind a pregnant fiancé. All of that was called into question now. Noah couldn’t even say a word to him now. If Barbara Sanders hadn’t been his mother, and he’d called her that his entire life, then no way was this man lying in the ground his biological father. He was nothing but a sham memory, a myth born from a lie. Had the two of them even known each other, or had his mother just taken advantage of the man’s early demise to explain away a sudden baby? Nothing made sense. Noah felt his chest constrict, his breath billowing out into the cold. He finally made his exit from St. Mary’s cemetery, passing through the stone gates like a re-entry in the world of the living. Except his entire self was numb. Quietly, not even aware of his actions, he returned to his car, and then he returned to the only home he’d ever known. He tossed off his wool coat, the snowy remnants melting on the floor of the warm house. He changed out of his suit into casual jeans and blue sweater, grabbed a beer from the fridge. Enjoyed its bitter taste. Weird how the cold brew calmed the chill inside him. Noah then padded into his bedroom, plopped down onto the bed. It was over, he thought, exhaustion settling over him. Except he knew that was a lie, one he couldn’t readily admit. Because it wasn’t over, but only just the beginning. A quest had been thrust upon him. His desire to know the truth. Again, his mind went back to that one word that haunted him—motive. What had made Barbara Sanders do what she’d done twenty-seven years ago, and then recently, seven days ago? Absconding with him, then fessing up while she still had the chance, a last breath. “You’re not my son,” she’d said. His computer was on his bedside table, and he reached for it. He’d put off until now doing any research on what she’d told him. Where did he start? What keywords would help Google spit out what he wanted to know? Stolen baby? Too vague. Missing son? Ambiguous, at best. No, what he needed was to combine a detail about his mother along with the name Hatcher. He recalled the details of her life, but what first came to him was their life together here in White Pine. He needed to reach back further, to before Noah had been born. She’d always been evasive about her childhood, telling him there was no sense in revisiting it. She’d been an only child, her parents deceased. No cousins either. Thinking about it now, it was like Barbara was deliberately isolating the two of them from the world, a place like White Pine more than ideal to accomplish that. Not much happened here. Unlike…he felt as though the proverbial light bulb had gone on above him. A memory became illuminated. She’d once spoken of a life on the Shore. She enjoyed the ocean, the beach. She spoke of riding a Ferris wheel and envisioning the world beyond her small town. Strange that she’d come to a town encased by mountains, when it was the water which called to her. His fingers were suddenly typing furiously. Shore. Ferris wheel. Hatcher. Keywords that could be the clues to the truth. He held his breath as the browser buffered, seeking out his information. A moment later a series of web options were offered to him. But it was the first one which hit pay dirt. Like the universe was suddenly deciding to be on side. Hatcher’s Resort, Cane’s Inlet, New Jersey. A website, photographs, a glimpse into what might be. An existence being played without him, as though he’d never been born. His heart suddenly beat faster, his palms wet with sweat. He had a clue, a lead. A piece of that might connect him with his unknown past. But what he wondered unsettled him more. Did he have a future? How strange this would all be happening now. Tomorrow would be his birthday. A new year never felt so uncertain. Part 1: Coastal Waves