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Power First Chapter
CHAPTER ONE
April 11th, 2007
When the truck lurched forward, the milk cans clanked together, almost tipping over. As it pulled away, Shannon chased it, tears rolling down her face. “Come back. Come back,” she shouted.
She stumbled and fell on the dirt road. She sobbed so hard that a violent case of the hiccups consumed her. The cloud of dust stung her eyes and made her cough. She lifted her tear-filled face as her dirty hands smeared sand and pebbles into her sweaty hair.
Then, his warm embrace engulfed her. “It’s okay, baby,” he whispered. “The truck has to leave so it can deliver the milk. It will be back for more in the morning.” He carried her inside, gently brushing the dirt off her clothes.
Shannon’s dream was interrupted as the wind snuck in through a tiny opening in the window and gently tickled her cheek. She smiled, thinking it was him. As she stirred in bed, she expected his warm breath on her neck. But when she opened her eyes, she saw only the sheets and blankets tangled around her ankles.
She sat up, kicked them away, and bounced out of bed. She took two steps to the window and opened it, welcoming the morning chill. It was a new day – a spring day – and she felt refreshed as the ocean breeze blew the long blonde hair off her face.
She looked at the calendar on her wall and saw that it was Wednesday, April eleventh—her twenty-ninth birthday. But she knew there would be no celebrating today. Not after what happened. Not so soon. Her friends were giving her space, as she requested. But today, finally, she was starting to feel like she might be ready.
It’s time, she told herself as she quickly dressed into shorts and a tee shirt, and made her way down the stairs. She stepped into the kitchen and went immediately for the phone. She dialed the all too familiar number.
“Information technology. This is Gary.”
“Gary. It’s Shannon.”
“Oh...Shannon...I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”
“I’m ready to come back.”
“What? You’re kidding.”
“I need to come back. How about Monday?”
“Are you sure you’re ready?”
“I’m calling you, aren’t I?”
“It’s not my place to tell you what to do,” Gary stammered, “it’s only been a few weeks. You can take more time. The company is behind you. They’re sending someone up from Atlanta to fill in for you until you’re ready.”
“Well, I’m ready now. So tell central office to send my replacement back to Georgia. I’ll be in Monday.”
“Okay, Shannon. If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.” She hung up the phone.
She strolled to her front door and thought of her mail. She had spent the previous few days in the house, and never made the walk to her mailbox. As she stepped onto her front lawn, she looked out at the wide river that led to Long Island Sound. She enjoyed the feeling of the sunshine seeping into her pale skin.
She considered herself lucky to have such a fine piece of shoreline property in southern Connecticut. She and Derek couldn’t believe their good fortune when their real estate agent called to tell them about the home in New Haven. When they learned the ridiculously low asking price, they purchased it before the listing ever made it into the newspapers.
It was their home for the past two years. Their quiet little sanctuary, hidden away from the rest of the world. With the river as their backyard and not a neighbor in sight, they adored the privacy.
She strolled toward her mailbox as her bare feet kicked up dust from the dirt road. She walked past the only other house on the narrow street, which belonged to a kind old man named Mr. Henry. Shannon had a soft spot for old men, and was particularly fond of her only neighbor.
After she and Derek moved in, she was touched when Mr. Henry walked down the road and brought her a basket of flowers to welcome them to the neighborhood. They had spoken only briefly, as was Mr. Henry’s custom, but the thoughtful gesture endeared him to her.
She quickened her pace, reached the end of the road, and retrieved two days worth of mail from her box. A quick glance revealed lots of junk mail, some catalogues, and a few belated sympathy cards from old friends. No birthday cards, as she had requested.
She started to head back, but couldn’t help noticing Mr. Henry’s mailbox. It was so overstuffed with mail that the door hung open. How odd, Shannon thought. The man followed a predictable routine, and made a slow walk to his mailbox every afternoon.
She wondered if he was sick or injured and was unable to make the walk. But why wouldn’t he call and ask me to drop his mail off?—she wondered. She had made it clear that she was available to assist him with anything, and made sure he had her phone number.
Maybe he’s too stubborn to ask for help, she thought. She walked back down the road, stopped in front of his house, and decided to check on him. She walked up his long front walkway, but froze about halfway when she saw his front steps. Her heart sank into her stomach as she focused on the sight: five rolled newspapers scattered across the steps.
They were obviously delivered, but never picked up. Her muscles tightened as the only logical explanation entered her mind. This was not a man who was young enough to take off on a vacation. And in two years, she had never seen a visitor at his house.
She prayed she was wrong as she ran up the steps and pounded on the door. She rang the bell twice, knocked some more, and waited, hopefully. Hearing nothing, she ran to the back of the house. She opened the screen door and rapped loudly on the back door.
To her surprise, the door opened a crack. At first she thought someone had opened it, but then realized the door was ajar. She knocked some more before pushing it completely open.
There was silence.
“Mr. Henry, are you home? It’s Shannon from up the road.”
Again, she heard nothing. She took a deep breath and slowly walked into the house. She stepped carefully through the kitchen, calling his name loudly. She looked around the cluttered but clean living room, and quickly inspected the dining room. The furnishings and decorations didn’t surprise her; they were modest but tasteful—much like Mr. Henry, she thought as she made her way down the hallway.
She took a step into the bathroom, looking for some sign of life. But there was nothing. No damp towel, no moist toothbrush, no droplets of water in the tub. She walked farther down the hall and saw two doors. One was open and she could see boxes and some other debris piled on a wooden desk and a small twin bed in the corner; the other door was closed.
She swallowed hard as she faced the closed door. She assumed this was his bedroom, and imagined the worst. “Mr. Henry, are you in there?” she yelled, her face inches from the door.
There was no reply. She waited a moment, licked her dry lips, and pushed the door open. She scanned the room from the doorway, frozen in terrified anticipation. But he wasn’t there. She released a pent-up breath as she took in the rest of the room. The bed was neatly made with the comforter pulled tight around it. The rest of the area contained ordinary bedroom items. Nothing shocking. Nothing unusual.
She walked back to the living room, found the basement door, and went downstairs. Again, she found no trace of him—just a musty old unfinished basement. She returned to the living room, and slumped on the couch.
Where could he be?—she wondered. Even if he did manage to travel, he would have made arrangements for his mail and newspapers. Something was wrong, she told herself. She had heard about elderly people developing dementia and wandering away from their homes.
She saw him from time to time, but not often enough to judge his mental state. They usually just shared a wave or a few quick words. He could have Alzheimer’s and I never knew it, Shannon thought, as she estimated his age in the late seventies or early eighties.
She couldn’t leave without doing something, so she found his phone and called the police. She sat on the front steps until a police cruiser appeared in the driveway. A middle-aged cop with a billy club dangling from his hip sauntered up the walkway; his name badge read: “Officer Fuller.”
“Good afternoon, Ma’am.”
“Thank you for coming, officer. I’m Shannon Dinardo.” She paused for a moment and then launched into the complete story, including her theory that he wandered away.
“I’d like to take a look around,” he said and walked inside. Shannon followed him around the house—her skinny five-foot-eight frame dwarfed by his tall blue shoulders. His radio crackled as he finished and stepped back onto the front steps.
“Do you know the gentleman well?” he asked as he jotted some information on a small notepad.
“Not very well. But I usually see him a couple of times a week. He’s my only neighbor.”
“Only neighbor?” Officer Fuller said, surprised, as he glanced down the road. Then, he looked back at Shannon with a newfound look of recognition. “Oh my God,” he muttered as he met eyes with her. “I didn’t realize.”
“Excuse me?”
“You said your last name was Dinardo?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m very sorry. I didn’t realize where I was. You’re the woman whose husband was killed in the car accident last month.”
“Derek was my fiancé.”
“My condolences. What a horrible thing. I hope you’re doing okay.”
“I’m all right, officer. Thank you for asking.”
Officer Fuller exhaled a deep sigh, and flipped a page in his notepad. “Regarding your neighbor,” he began, “you did the right thing to call us, but there’s not much we can do right now.”
“But he’s missing. Aren’t you going to investigate?"
“Technically, he’s not missing until he’s been gone for twenty-four hours.”
Shannon gestured at the pile of papers on the front steps and said, “Don’t you see this? He’s obviously been gone for days.”
“I realize that may be the case, but we can’t consider him missing until twenty-four hours from the time I submit this report.”
“So you’ll start an investigation tomorrow?”
Officer Fuller met eyes with her, and quickly looked away. He looked at the ground when he said, “I’ll file a report, and we’ll keep an eye out for him...I’m sorry...I wish we were able to do more.”
“I don’t understand.”
“To be honest, we don’t have the time or manpower to investigate something like this. I’ll look around the area today, and we’ll keep an eye out for him. But there’s not much more we can do. Do you know if his family is aware?”
“I have no idea if he has a family. I’ve never seen a soul coming or going from here in two years.”
Officer Fuller wrote on his pad. He passed her a business card and they shook hands. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help. Please call us if you find him, or if you learn about any family members.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
The officer left, and Shannon sat on the front steps, her chin resting on her palms. The term “family members” bothered her. Why couldn’t someone who cares about him be considered as important as a family member?
She glanced at the front lawn, remembering her parents. They had been dead for five years now, but she still thought about them every day. They adopted her when she was three years old, and raised her as an only child. Aside from a distant uncle and a couple of cousins somewhere on the West Coast, she also had no family members to speak of, and never learned the identity of her biological parents. She only knew she had been adopted from Russia.
I know the feeling of not having family close by, she thought to herself as if she were speaking to Mr. Henry. Still, she knew she had to do the proper thing, and search his house until she found a phone number of a relative.
She walked back into the house and looked through some drawers in the kitchen. There was nothing. No phone book. No number jotted down on the calendar that hung inside a cabinet. Surely, there was a number for a relative somewhere, she assumed.
She remembered the desk in the spare room. Perhaps something was tucked away inside of it, she hoped. She entered the tiny room and lifted a few boxes off of the old desk, placing them on the bed. She opened the top drawer and saw a large neatly folded red cloth. She closed the drawer and wondered where he would store a phone book.
She started to open a side drawer, but stopped. The cloth. What was it? She opened the top drawer again and looked at it. This was an odd place to store a tablecloth, she thought. But maybe it wasn’t a tablecloth. She touched it. It took her a moment, but then she recognized the texture. It was some sort of flag.
Maybe it’s an old American flag. Perhaps he’s a World War II veteran. She pulled the flag out of the drawer and let it unfurl. With outstretched arms she held the flag in either hand, anticipating the familiar sight of old glory.
But what she saw stole her breath. Her mouth fell open as her stomach tightened into a knot that nearly doubled her over. It was a flag, as she expected, but it was not the American flag.
She closed her eyes, hoping she was hallucinating. When she opened them back up she was still holding the red flag. Her eyes darted back to the large white circle in the center of it. It was still there. A horrifying symbol she had never seen outside of a book. But there was no mistaking it.
She knew she was looking at a swastika.
April 11th, 2007
When the truck lurched forward, the milk cans clanked together, almost tipping over. As it pulled away, Shannon chased it, tears rolling down her face. “Come back. Come back,” she shouted.
She stumbled and fell on the dirt road. She sobbed so hard that a violent case of the hiccups consumed her. The cloud of dust stung her eyes and made her cough. She lifted her tear-filled face as her dirty hands smeared sand and pebbles into her sweaty hair.
Then, his warm embrace engulfed her. “It’s okay, baby,” he whispered. “The truck has to leave so it can deliver the milk. It will be back for more in the morning.” He carried her inside, gently brushing the dirt off her clothes.
Shannon’s dream was interrupted as the wind snuck in through a tiny opening in the window and gently tickled her cheek. She smiled, thinking it was him. As she stirred in bed, she expected his warm breath on her neck. But when she opened her eyes, she saw only the sheets and blankets tangled around her ankles.
She sat up, kicked them away, and bounced out of bed. She took two steps to the window and opened it, welcoming the morning chill. It was a new day – a spring day – and she felt refreshed as the ocean breeze blew the long blonde hair off her face.
She looked at the calendar on her wall and saw that it was Wednesday, April eleventh—her twenty-ninth birthday. But she knew there would be no celebrating today. Not after what happened. Not so soon. Her friends were giving her space, as she requested. But today, finally, she was starting to feel like she might be ready.
It’s time, she told herself as she quickly dressed into shorts and a tee shirt, and made her way down the stairs. She stepped into the kitchen and went immediately for the phone. She dialed the all too familiar number.
“Information technology. This is Gary.”
“Gary. It’s Shannon.”
“Oh...Shannon...I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”
“I’m ready to come back.”
“What? You’re kidding.”
“I need to come back. How about Monday?”
“Are you sure you’re ready?”
“I’m calling you, aren’t I?”
“It’s not my place to tell you what to do,” Gary stammered, “it’s only been a few weeks. You can take more time. The company is behind you. They’re sending someone up from Atlanta to fill in for you until you’re ready.”
“Well, I’m ready now. So tell central office to send my replacement back to Georgia. I’ll be in Monday.”
“Okay, Shannon. If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.” She hung up the phone.
She strolled to her front door and thought of her mail. She had spent the previous few days in the house, and never made the walk to her mailbox. As she stepped onto her front lawn, she looked out at the wide river that led to Long Island Sound. She enjoyed the feeling of the sunshine seeping into her pale skin.
She considered herself lucky to have such a fine piece of shoreline property in southern Connecticut. She and Derek couldn’t believe their good fortune when their real estate agent called to tell them about the home in New Haven. When they learned the ridiculously low asking price, they purchased it before the listing ever made it into the newspapers.
It was their home for the past two years. Their quiet little sanctuary, hidden away from the rest of the world. With the river as their backyard and not a neighbor in sight, they adored the privacy.
She strolled toward her mailbox as her bare feet kicked up dust from the dirt road. She walked past the only other house on the narrow street, which belonged to a kind old man named Mr. Henry. Shannon had a soft spot for old men, and was particularly fond of her only neighbor.
After she and Derek moved in, she was touched when Mr. Henry walked down the road and brought her a basket of flowers to welcome them to the neighborhood. They had spoken only briefly, as was Mr. Henry’s custom, but the thoughtful gesture endeared him to her.
She quickened her pace, reached the end of the road, and retrieved two days worth of mail from her box. A quick glance revealed lots of junk mail, some catalogues, and a few belated sympathy cards from old friends. No birthday cards, as she had requested.
She started to head back, but couldn’t help noticing Mr. Henry’s mailbox. It was so overstuffed with mail that the door hung open. How odd, Shannon thought. The man followed a predictable routine, and made a slow walk to his mailbox every afternoon.
She wondered if he was sick or injured and was unable to make the walk. But why wouldn’t he call and ask me to drop his mail off?—she wondered. She had made it clear that she was available to assist him with anything, and made sure he had her phone number.
Maybe he’s too stubborn to ask for help, she thought. She walked back down the road, stopped in front of his house, and decided to check on him. She walked up his long front walkway, but froze about halfway when she saw his front steps. Her heart sank into her stomach as she focused on the sight: five rolled newspapers scattered across the steps.
They were obviously delivered, but never picked up. Her muscles tightened as the only logical explanation entered her mind. This was not a man who was young enough to take off on a vacation. And in two years, she had never seen a visitor at his house.
She prayed she was wrong as she ran up the steps and pounded on the door. She rang the bell twice, knocked some more, and waited, hopefully. Hearing nothing, she ran to the back of the house. She opened the screen door and rapped loudly on the back door.
To her surprise, the door opened a crack. At first she thought someone had opened it, but then realized the door was ajar. She knocked some more before pushing it completely open.
There was silence.
“Mr. Henry, are you home? It’s Shannon from up the road.”
Again, she heard nothing. She took a deep breath and slowly walked into the house. She stepped carefully through the kitchen, calling his name loudly. She looked around the cluttered but clean living room, and quickly inspected the dining room. The furnishings and decorations didn’t surprise her; they were modest but tasteful—much like Mr. Henry, she thought as she made her way down the hallway.
She took a step into the bathroom, looking for some sign of life. But there was nothing. No damp towel, no moist toothbrush, no droplets of water in the tub. She walked farther down the hall and saw two doors. One was open and she could see boxes and some other debris piled on a wooden desk and a small twin bed in the corner; the other door was closed.
She swallowed hard as she faced the closed door. She assumed this was his bedroom, and imagined the worst. “Mr. Henry, are you in there?” she yelled, her face inches from the door.
There was no reply. She waited a moment, licked her dry lips, and pushed the door open. She scanned the room from the doorway, frozen in terrified anticipation. But he wasn’t there. She released a pent-up breath as she took in the rest of the room. The bed was neatly made with the comforter pulled tight around it. The rest of the area contained ordinary bedroom items. Nothing shocking. Nothing unusual.
She walked back to the living room, found the basement door, and went downstairs. Again, she found no trace of him—just a musty old unfinished basement. She returned to the living room, and slumped on the couch.
Where could he be?—she wondered. Even if he did manage to travel, he would have made arrangements for his mail and newspapers. Something was wrong, she told herself. She had heard about elderly people developing dementia and wandering away from their homes.
She saw him from time to time, but not often enough to judge his mental state. They usually just shared a wave or a few quick words. He could have Alzheimer’s and I never knew it, Shannon thought, as she estimated his age in the late seventies or early eighties.
She couldn’t leave without doing something, so she found his phone and called the police. She sat on the front steps until a police cruiser appeared in the driveway. A middle-aged cop with a billy club dangling from his hip sauntered up the walkway; his name badge read: “Officer Fuller.”
“Good afternoon, Ma’am.”
“Thank you for coming, officer. I’m Shannon Dinardo.” She paused for a moment and then launched into the complete story, including her theory that he wandered away.
“I’d like to take a look around,” he said and walked inside. Shannon followed him around the house—her skinny five-foot-eight frame dwarfed by his tall blue shoulders. His radio crackled as he finished and stepped back onto the front steps.
“Do you know the gentleman well?” he asked as he jotted some information on a small notepad.
“Not very well. But I usually see him a couple of times a week. He’s my only neighbor.”
“Only neighbor?” Officer Fuller said, surprised, as he glanced down the road. Then, he looked back at Shannon with a newfound look of recognition. “Oh my God,” he muttered as he met eyes with her. “I didn’t realize.”
“Excuse me?”
“You said your last name was Dinardo?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m very sorry. I didn’t realize where I was. You’re the woman whose husband was killed in the car accident last month.”
“Derek was my fiancé.”
“My condolences. What a horrible thing. I hope you’re doing okay.”
“I’m all right, officer. Thank you for asking.”
Officer Fuller exhaled a deep sigh, and flipped a page in his notepad. “Regarding your neighbor,” he began, “you did the right thing to call us, but there’s not much we can do right now.”
“But he’s missing. Aren’t you going to investigate?"
“Technically, he’s not missing until he’s been gone for twenty-four hours.”
Shannon gestured at the pile of papers on the front steps and said, “Don’t you see this? He’s obviously been gone for days.”
“I realize that may be the case, but we can’t consider him missing until twenty-four hours from the time I submit this report.”
“So you’ll start an investigation tomorrow?”
Officer Fuller met eyes with her, and quickly looked away. He looked at the ground when he said, “I’ll file a report, and we’ll keep an eye out for him...I’m sorry...I wish we were able to do more.”
“I don’t understand.”
“To be honest, we don’t have the time or manpower to investigate something like this. I’ll look around the area today, and we’ll keep an eye out for him. But there’s not much more we can do. Do you know if his family is aware?”
“I have no idea if he has a family. I’ve never seen a soul coming or going from here in two years.”
Officer Fuller wrote on his pad. He passed her a business card and they shook hands. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help. Please call us if you find him, or if you learn about any family members.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
The officer left, and Shannon sat on the front steps, her chin resting on her palms. The term “family members” bothered her. Why couldn’t someone who cares about him be considered as important as a family member?
She glanced at the front lawn, remembering her parents. They had been dead for five years now, but she still thought about them every day. They adopted her when she was three years old, and raised her as an only child. Aside from a distant uncle and a couple of cousins somewhere on the West Coast, she also had no family members to speak of, and never learned the identity of her biological parents. She only knew she had been adopted from Russia.
I know the feeling of not having family close by, she thought to herself as if she were speaking to Mr. Henry. Still, she knew she had to do the proper thing, and search his house until she found a phone number of a relative.
She walked back into the house and looked through some drawers in the kitchen. There was nothing. No phone book. No number jotted down on the calendar that hung inside a cabinet. Surely, there was a number for a relative somewhere, she assumed.
She remembered the desk in the spare room. Perhaps something was tucked away inside of it, she hoped. She entered the tiny room and lifted a few boxes off of the old desk, placing them on the bed. She opened the top drawer and saw a large neatly folded red cloth. She closed the drawer and wondered where he would store a phone book.
She started to open a side drawer, but stopped. The cloth. What was it? She opened the top drawer again and looked at it. This was an odd place to store a tablecloth, she thought. But maybe it wasn’t a tablecloth. She touched it. It took her a moment, but then she recognized the texture. It was some sort of flag.
Maybe it’s an old American flag. Perhaps he’s a World War II veteran. She pulled the flag out of the drawer and let it unfurl. With outstretched arms she held the flag in either hand, anticipating the familiar sight of old glory.
But what she saw stole her breath. Her mouth fell open as her stomach tightened into a knot that nearly doubled her over. It was a flag, as she expected, but it was not the American flag.
She closed her eyes, hoping she was hallucinating. When she opened them back up she was still holding the red flag. Her eyes darted back to the large white circle in the center of it. It was still there. A horrifying symbol she had never seen outside of a book. But there was no mistaking it.
She knew she was looking at a swastika.
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