They Disappeared

Epilogue

Laurel, Montana

Late Friday afternoon. Sunlight streamed through the open bay doors at Clay Platt’s Auto Service where Jeff finished repairing a clutch on a Chev.

He went to his bench and reviewed the sheets of all the work he’d completed today. It included two brake jobs, a timing chain, a leaky radiator and three oil changes. Not bad. Everything’s in order.

Time to clock out.

Jeff changed out of his coveralls, washed up, then stuck his head into the small office. Old Man Platt looked up at him from the books.

“Heading out?”

“Yeah.”

“Give any more thought to my offer to sell the shop?”

“I did.”

“Could work out nice for you, what with a new baby on the way.”

“I know. I’ve been talking it over with Sarah. We’ll give you an answer Monday.”

“All right, you have a good weekend, Jeff.”

It was now nearly four months since they’d returned from New York City. Guiding his pickup through Laurel’s quiet streets, Jeff reflected on its small-town heritage, from the days of the settlers to its evolution as a railway hub and a God-fearing community outside of Billings. To the west he glimpsed the Beartooth Mountains, never tiring of the view and what it meant. Life out here, where the earth meets the sky on even terms, where your sense of self-importance is either exaggerated or diminished, suited him.

Now more than ever.

He was not as shaky as he first was on everything that had happened in New York. On some nights, during the first month, Sarah woke in tears and he’d hold her until she stopped trembling. Other nights they’d hear Cole crying out in his sleep and they’d both go to him.

And there were times early in those first weeks when Jeff was jarred awake, adrenaline pumping, heart hammering with overwhelming terror, forcing him to check on Sarah and Cole to prove that they were still there.

Since then, parts of it remained crystalline. Others were a blur, like the days of the immediate aftermath. The questioning by the NYPD and the FBI, the press conference that was carried live around the globe and later the endless network interviews.

“Joining us now in our Manhattan studio, Jeff, Sarah and Cole Griffin. They’re going to recount their terrifying experience, which has captured the world’s attention….”

In those early stages, talking about it seemed to help. It meant they were alive, that they’d survived. They told their story over and over, then again when they returned to Laurel.

Friends embraced them, supported them.

“That’s a hell of a thing to face,” Old Man Platt had said. “Especially after all you’ve been through, Jeff, a hell of thing.”

In the time that followed, Jeff grappled with questions.

Why did these things happen to my family? Why us?

There were no answers.

The way to surmount it all was to feel whatever they were feeling, hang on and help one another.

“Take every day as it comes, and as an act of faith believe that it will get better,” Kransky told them in their counseling sessions.

And it worked.

Little by little they’d regained control of their lives. Sarah resumed teaching, drawing strength from her work. While Cole was resilient, Jeff noticed steadfastness in his eyes, but he’d endured.

Hell, we all endured.

Jeff smiled to himself as he rolled through his town. There was a silver lining. It had obliterated all of his doubts about Sarah, about holding his family together.

That, and the private trips he made to the children’s section of the cemetery at the edge of Laurel.

Jeff realized his place in the world was to take care of his family, to help others every chance he could. Being a good husband, a good dad, fixing cars and volunteering for emergencies seemed just about right, for him.

He turned his truck’s radio to his favorite country station, glad to catch “I Walk the Line.” Listening, he thought the song suited his state of mind as he came upon his home on Coyote Ridge Road.

They had a ranch-style bungalow on half an acre, but they started dreaming again of getting a bigger place at Pheasant Brook. There were some nice properties out there.

He eased his Ford into the driveway, killed the engine and radio. He hesitated before he got out. Through the front window he caught the scene: Sarah, standing behind Cole, who was working at the computer. Sarah was pointing at something on the screen, likely Cole’s geography project.

Cole had chosen to do it on New York City.

They’d promised him they would go back one day for a real vacation.

Jeff smiled to himself.

As the truck’s engine ticked down he continued looking into the window. This was a portrait of a perfect life.

My life.

They were not the same family anymore.

They never would be.

They were stronger, and no matter what they faced, nothing could ever, or would ever, defeat them.