The drive from Virginia to Upstate New York is about ten hours. I keep myself entertained by listening to the radio and counting trees as they zoom by in a blur. We do talk from time to time as we cruise along. It's just enough small-talk to prevent the awkward silences.
Now the remaining day is slipping from us. A florescent pink is beginning to devour the blue horizon.
"We made it," my mom informs me.
We take an exit ramp that welcomes us into the City of Rochester. The downtown area, just like any city, appears typical. You have your stores, your cabs, your buses, and your traffic lights on every block. In no time, we cruise through a neighborhood lined with boxy homes. She makes a final right turn onto Meigs Street and then lowers speed. She carefully observes all of the addresses as we ease down the block.
"This is us," she says while pulling into a vacant driveway.
This house is boxy like the others with a beige exterior and blue window shutters. There’s a black car parked in front of the house, which belongs to a police official. My mom beeps the car horn several times. A couple of seconds later, the front door opens. A man is standing in the doorway of the house, smiling.
He’s dressed casually in a pair of black slacks and a white shirt with the sleeves partially rolled up on each arm. He hurries onto the porch and down the steps, bringing a vivid smile along with him. My mom rushes out of the van and meets him with an embrace. A moment later, they detach. She takes a moment to study his physical appearance from head to toe.
"Oh my God! I can't believe you cut your hair," my mom’s excited voice is penetrating the windows.
He leans his head forward so she can further examine his bronze hair. He then directs his big grin towards me and wraps around the front of the van. He opens the door.
"What’s up kiddo?" he asks me. “Need a hand?”
I look deeply into his green eyes and begin to pull moments with him from my memory bank. He has the same green eyes and golden-brown hair as my mother. I know him, but I haven’t seen him in a very long time. And then it hits me,
"Uncle Frank?" I mutter shockingly.
"Who else would I be?" he replies…
CHAPTER 2: DETECTIVE LANCASTER