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Stolen Legacy

By Diane Munson, David Munson

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Federal Agent Eva Montanna tore after the suspect with tremendous
speed. Her heart banged against her ribs. She fl ed across a slippery slope,
the reassuring grip of her Glock giving her courage to pursue the woman.
No matter how Eva tried, she couldn’t breach the distance. Her prey was
escaping with astonishing speed.
Fury rose within Eva. She pulled in extra air, urging her legs to ramp
it up and catch the woman. A federal agent couldn’t simply fi re at a fl eeing
felon without cause. Still, if the woman turned and pointed her gun, Eva
could shoot. She would shoot.
But what if the woman never quit running?
Eva yelled again, “Federal agent! I said stop!”
Th e suspect dressed in black sped down the hill. Eva drew nearer. But her
foot collided against a rock. She careened onto the wet grass, her body sliding
dangerously close to the mountain’s edge. Eva stifl ed a scream.
Th e woman turned, raising her gun. Eva’s eyes locked onto the woman’s
vivid turquoise-blue eyes. Fear jolted through her. Where was her Glock?
A noisy bell rang. Eva’s eyes fl ew open. Where was she?
To the erratic beating of her heart, she surveyed old-fashioned furniture
spread about the room in a hodgepodge fashion. Eva tried shaking off her
grogginess. She felt exhausted from working so many hours just to get away
on vacation. A colorful watercolor of a woman hung on the living room
wall above her. She was lying on a couch. Okay, she was in Grandpa Marty’s
house in Zeeland, Michigan. Eva and her family had arrived yesterday for a
two-week vacation.
The eerie dream bothered her. She mentally zipped through her past
cases, not recognizing anyone with such odd-colored eyes. What about
the woman’s gun? Eva had seen one like it—in a WWII museum she’d
visited near Washington D.C. It looked much like a German P38. Eva
roused herself and stood, convinced neither the woman nor the gun had
any bearing on her life.
“Grandpa,” she called. “Are you here?”
She glimpsed out the front window. A white van drove off. Had she
actually heard the doorbell ring? The front door closed, and Marty emerged
from the front hallway.
He stared at a box. “I thought maybe it was Ralph returning my journal.”
“Your neighbor has your war journals?” Eva blinked.
“Well, he took only one, but for the life of me, I don’t remember why.”
Marty tossed her a quizzical look. Eva came closer.
“Ralph brought back the journal,” she said. “Now we can begin your
memoirs.”
“It’s addressed to me,” Marty replied, flexing his brow.
The way the box was taped rather sloppily planted a seed of suspicion in
Eva’s mind.
“Grandpa, why would Ralph wrap your journal in brown paper?”
“I never said he gave me this.” Marty wore a crooked grin.
Impatience erupted in Eva. Had she entered the Twilight Zone? He continued
fumbling with the paper. She leaned over to tear it off, but tugged too
hard, sending the package crashing to the tile.
With both hands, she snatched up the box and shook it. Suspicion burrowed
into her well-trained mind. Why did Ralph want Marty’s World War II
writings anyway?
“This is too light for a journal,” she said. “And there’s no postmark.”
Marty reached for his package. Eva refused to hand it over until she
knew more.
“Not until you tell me who gave you this. If Ralph didn’t bring this, who
did? Was it your mail carrier?”
“Nope. It was one of those trucks.”
“Do you mean a brown truck with a man in uniform?”
“No.” Marty raised his chin. “But I see how tough you are questioning
me, just like I see on TV.”
“You have nothing to fear from me, Grandpa. Let’s open your box.”
His fingers were too weak to break the tape, so Eva grabbed a pair of
scissors. After snipping the tape, she ripped off the brown wrapping. He
pulled a pair of plaid slippers from the box. He plopped down on a kitchen
chair and tried them on.
“They’re a perfect fit.” Delight rang in his voice.
Eva peered inside the box, looking for a card. “I wonder who sent them.”
Nothing indicated who sent the gift. Stymied, she checked the brown
paper for clues. Carriers used bar codes and scanners. This parcel had none.
Marty lifted up his slipper-clad feet. “Eva Marie, since your grandma,
my Joanne, passed away, several church widows fuss over me. They make me
feel kind of old.”
“You don’t act your age,” Eva replied, crackling the brown paper. “You
reached the door before I even left the couch.”
She set the wrapping and box on the kitchen table. Marty took off his
slippers and shoved them back into the box.
“Maybe it’s the dreams keeping me up at night that are aging me,” he said.
“What dreams?”
Marty ignored her question, asking, “Where’s Scott and my greatgrandkids?
My time with them will end too soon.”
“Good question.” Eva checked her watch. “My sweetie and the three
kiddos should be back from the beach by now.”
She picked up the old-fashioned wall phone and dialed Scott’s cell
number. It went to his voicemail. Her haunting dream tugged at her mind,
and she was curious what dreams Marty had.
The mystery slippers arriving suddenly also disturbed her.
Her family was late and she couldn’t reach
Scott. Worry bolted through her. Scott rarely turned off his phone.

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