“She must have been really scared,” my mother had said to me as she sipped the cup of herbal tea she always drank before bed to help her sleep.
“Who?” I had asked.
“Mary,” she said, her lips gathering into a pondering pout. “Finding herself pregnant and on this long journey. Knowing she has to raise this very important child. That her son will one day change the world.”
I had pulled the blanket higher up on my chest and rested my face against the couch’s cool leather as I looked over at my mother. We never really talked about religion or beliefs or faith. I knew the basic stories of the Bible. The headlines. Jesus. The crucifixion. Moses. The parting of the Red Sea. Noah and the flood. But that was all. It wasn’t a subject that we avoided. It just wasn’t a topic of conversation. Still, I was curious and asked, “Do you think Jesus was really the Son of God?”
I had watched my mother as her eyes studied the bright lights and colorful ornaments on the tree. After a few moments, she slowly turned her head toward me. “I don’t know,” she had answered with a gentle shrug. “I guess I’d like to think so. And if it is all true, what an amazing woman Mary was, right? What a responsibility to shoulder.”
“Reagan,” Luke’s voice pulls me out of my own head. “The same car has been following us ever since we got on the highway.”
Shit. What am I doing? I should be paying attention.
“Which one?” I ask and look into my rearview mirror, surveying the vehicles behind us. There’s a red SUV in the left lane directly behind us. A white four-door car in the middle lane. A gray pickup truck behind them and a black SUV in the far right lane.
“The pickup,” Luke replies, turning around slightly in his seat to get a better look.
“Where?” Harper asks and begins to turn around to look out the back window.
“Don’t, Harper,” I say, my voice a little too harsh. She turns her body back around. “If it is Fernando’s people, we don’t want them to know they’ve been spotted.”
“What the hell, you guys?” Harper says, sinking her body lower into her seat. “We switched cars. I ditched my cell phone. How could they find us? I thought we were safe.”
We’re never safe, my mind laments. But I can’t tell Harper that or she’ll freak out.
“We’ve taken every precaution to keep us safe,” I answer and want to roll my eyes at my sterile, stereotypical Black Angel reply.
“It may not even be anything,” Luke says, now facing forward and watching the truck in his side mirror. “Can you get a visual on the passenger and driver?”
“No, I can’t,” I answer, easing up on the accelerator, hoping to bring the truck a little closer to us so I can see inside the cab. But as I decelerate, the truck eases up on the gas as well. The red SUV is now on my ass, the driver throwing his hands up in the air, visibly agitated by my slowing pace. I turn on my blinker and move the car into the middle lane. As the SUV zooms past me, the driver and passenger both shoot me a scowl like I was going thirty miles per hour instead of seventy.
“Chill out, assholes!” Harper yells, reacting to the duo of dirty looks.
I ease up on the gas again, trying to pull the truck closer to us in traffic. But they don’t take the bait.
“I still can’t see them,” I say and shake my head. I look in my rearview mirror one more time but can only make out two lumpy figures in the passenger and driver’s seats. “They keep slowing down when we slow down.”
“On purpose?” Harper says, her voice tightening.
“I don’t know,” I say and shake my head.
“It’s them, it’s them, it’s them, it’s them,” Harper groans, wringing her hands together and trying to look over her shoulder again.
“Harper, stop,” I command, whipping her head back around with the sternness in my voice. “It may be nothing. It could just be a family on the road. But you have to stay calm.”
I feel immediately bad for demanding calmness out of someone whose biggest problem forty-eight hours ago was getting through a three-hour History of Film exam. How can I expect Harper to be calm when she went from never seeing a gun in real life to having assassins shoot at her? I’m lucky she hasn’t had a complete breakdown yet. Still, she obeys, taking in a deep breath before sinking further into her seat.
“I can’t see them either, Reagan,” Luke says, narrowing his eyes and staring at the truck in the passenger-side mirror. “See what happens if you speed up.”
I put on my blinker, change lanes, and hit the gas. I don’t want to tip them off by going too fast, but as I reach eighty miles an hour, I look in my rearview to see the truck changing lanes and speeding up behind me.
“Keep up the speed,” Luke instructs. “Either they’re just trying to get around that car or they’re following us.”
I push the Jeep’s speed to eighty-five, the tires crunching against freshly laid salt. The truck stays far enough back that I still cannot make out their faces or even genders, but it keeps up with our increasing pace.
“Come on,” I say to the rearview mirror. “Who are you?”
I move the Jeep back into the middle lane, my heart pounding against my sternum, and take my foot off the accelerator. I wait for the truck to maintain their fast speed, move closer to us. But they hang back, their speed still parallel with mine.
“Damn it,” Luke says as he watches, rubbing his anxious hands against his jeans.
It’s them, it’s them, it’s them. My brain repeats Harper’s whimper as the nerves in my fingers begin to tingle, quickly spreading to my hands, forearms, and biceps. I roll back my shoulders, trying to stop the debilitating buzz from spreading as I glance in the rearview mirror at the truck, my breath held in my throbbing chest. I hit the accelerator once again and this time, the truck stays back. Perhaps it’s nothing. Or perhaps my constant change in speed has tipped them off.
“I’m going to get off here and see what happens,” I say, more to myself than to Harper or Luke. I pull the car into the right-hand lane and make my way toward the next exit to some forgettable town with one motel, three fast food restaurants, and two gas stations making up the local economy.
I watch in my rearview mirror as the truck changes lanes. I finally take in a breath, the air entering my lungs with the sharpness of a thousand safety pins, as I guide the Jeep down the exit ramp.
Will they follow?
As I pull down the ramp, I watch in my mirror as the truck keeps on going, past the no name town, past the three of us.
“Maybe it was nothing,” Luke says quietly, his tense body sinking back into the leather seat.
As I pull up to the red light, my mouth pushes out a small sigh of relief but my muscles refuse to unknot. Because the days of looking over our shoulders, waiting to feel a pistol at our backs, are far from over. And as I lean my forehead against the cold steering wheel, I wonder if this constant fear will ever end.
ELEVEN
“Think they have Christmas sugar cookies or something in there?” Harper asks, her eyes on the convenience store with a neon Bud Light sign flashing in the window.
“It’s a gas station in the middle of Iowa,” I answer and look out into the darkness, catching a glimpse of a middle-aged man with shaggy gray hair and a deep frown leaning against the counter near the register. “I think the best you can hope for is beef jerky and Hostess Snowballs.”
Luke opens the driver’s side door and leans his head into the car. The whine of a Muzak version of “The Christmas Song” floats into the car from a tiny speaker hanging close to our gas pump. “I need thirty-two bucks for the gas,” he says, and I reach into my backpack to check on our stash of cash.
“Make it thirty-five,” Harper says, sliding across the backseat and popping open the door. “If I can’t have my mom’s cookies on Christmas Eve, I’m at least going to get some type of sugary treat.”
“Planning on Santa finding us at our motel?” I ask, pulling out two twenty-dollar bills from our dwindling supply and handin
g it over to Luke.
“Maybe he will,” Harper says, attempting a small smile that looks highly inauthentic on her fatigued face.
“Reagan, got your gun?” Luke asks me quietly, waiting for me to check under the seat before leaving me alone in the car.
“Got it,” I answer after I feel the grip of the handle. “All good.”
“We’ll be back in a minute,” Luke says, slamming the car door.
“More like three, I’ve really got to pee,” Harper adds, closing her door, and I can hear Luke arguing with her just to hold it until we get to the restaurant. It’s an argument he won’t win because as soon as Harper feels that need to pee, she obsesses over it until she goes. She used to get up just as we were about to drift off to sleep during sleepovers to ensure her bladder was completely empty. Even if she had peed ten minutes before. Some people have to go to bed with a clear mind. Harper can’t sleep without a clear bladder.
I watch the two of them walk away as the most depressing version of “The Christmas Song” penetrates the car’s glass and fills the quiet space. I glance up at the speaker. It’s rusty and has a few wires sticking out of it, making the hollow notes sound even emptier.
“And so I’m offering this simple phrase, to kids from one to ninety-two,” I sing softly along to drown out the version playing just beyond my pane of glass.
The shrill ring of the satellite phone fills the car, making my entire body jump. I close my eyes and lay my hand over my racing heart for a moment before reaching into the backpack and pulling it out.
“Hello?” I say into the receiver.
“Hey, sweetie,” a warm voice replies. Sam. “Just wanted to check in and see how you guys were doing.”
“Oh, we’re doing okay,” I answer, peering back into the convenience store where Luke is paying for gas and several of Harper’s treats while she grabs the key to the bathroom. “Just on our way to a lovely Christmas Eve dinner in Waterloo, Iowa.”
“Are there places open?” she asks.
“The guy who checked us in at our motel said there’s a diner in town that stays open three hundred sixty-five days a year,” I answer, cradling the phone in between my ear and shoulder so I can zip up my coat. Without the heat on, the car is getting cold.
“You’re still staying away from name brand places, right?” Sam asks. “They’ll have cameras at a Motel 6 or Red Roof Inn.”
“Of course,” I answer. “The shittier the place, the better.”
“Where are you staying tonight?” she asks.
“The lovely Waterloo Woods Lodge. The name is pretty misleading. You’d think if you were going to call yourself a lodge, there’d be a little more charm. But the lobby is the worst one yet. Giant stains on the carpet. Depressing eighties flower wallpaper peeling off the wall. Like at least pretend to give a shit.”
Sam lets out a laugh and the sudden pain of missing her feels like an ax to the center of my sternum. “Well, just keep doing what you’re doing, okay? We’re doing everything we can to track these guys. You just keep running and stay safe, okay?”
“Okay,” I answer with a sigh.
“Merry Christmas,” Sam says. “I really wish we were together tonight.”
Tears prick at my eyes and I have to heave out a cough to push them back down.
“Me too, Sam,” I answer, my voice raspy. “Merry Christmas.”
* * *
Red. Green. Red. Green. Red. Green.
I stare out the diner window and watch as the Christmas lights flicker.
After driving for two days, living off of gas station pizza, drive-thru burgers, and bad coffee, I can’t wait for a dish that’s not fast food or Fritos.
They’re trying to make it cheerful in here with shiny tinsel stapled along the side of the long Formica countertop bar and oversized glittery red bulbs and silver stars hanging precariously from the tiled ceiling with pushpins. Our waitress is even wearing a little Santa hat, attempting to be as merry as she can for someone who has to serve just a handful of tables on Christmas Eve. She’ll probably make fifteen bucks in tips tonight if she’s lucky.
The thought of her counting her measly tips in that Santa hat at the end of the night blackens my already dark mood. As my eyes fixate on the blinking lights, I long for the warmth and excitement that used to bubble at my core on Christmas Eve. It was so strong as a child, like swallowing a million butterflies. They’d flap and tickle every part of me, nearly lifting me off the ground from the inside. That pure happiness subsided as I grew up, but it was still there. Tonight as I sit in a bright-red leather booth, that feeling is nowhere to be found. The only thing bubbling inside me is restrained alarm.
“Two Christmas specials,” the waitress says, pushing plates of turkey, stuffing, and mashed potatoes with gravy toward Luke and me, seated together on one side of the booth. “And a pot roast dinner for you.”
She slides the last plate toward Harper, who looks up at her with a small smile. “Thanks so much,” she says as she picks up a fork, digging in before the waitress has even left the table. Harper’s parents supply her with a healthy monthly allowance that allows her to eat at some of the best restaurants in the world, a few blocks in either direction from her dorm. Gas station cuisine has left her crabby during every meal.
“Enjoy,” the waitress says with a nod, the furry white ball of her Santa hat flopping in front of her eyes. She pushes it aside as she makes her way to the only other occupied table, a corner booth where a young couple feed each other onion rings.
“Well, I wish we were doing this little Christmas Eve feast at the Dead End Diner in Ohio instead of this place in Who-the-Fuck-Knows-Where, Iowa,” Harper says with a mouthful of pot roast.
“Me too,” answers Luke as he dunks a piece of turkey into the pool of gravy over mashed potatoes. I take a bite of my own turkey.
“This turkey isn’t half bad,” I say, trying to brighten the mood as much as one can when it’s Christmas Eve and you’re not with your family. Oh … and on the run from people who are trying to kill you.
“Yeah, it’s actually pretty darn good,” Luke answers, taking another bite. “But we never had turkey on Christmas Eve. Always beef tenderloin or prime rib or something.”
“Yeah, us neither,” I answer. “My dad’s mother is Italian. Like off the boat from Sicily. So even though I grew up only a quarter Italian, we always had the traditional Italian Christmas Eve dinner with the seven fishes and spaghetti and broccoli.”
“Spaghetti and broccoli,” Harper says, scrunching up her nose. “That sounds disgusting.”
“It’s actually really good,” I answer and take a bite of mashed potatoes. “Really simple. One of my favorite dishes, and we’d only eat it on Christmas Eve. My grandma taught my mom how to make it so even when we didn’t spend Christmases with them, my mom would always cook it for me and my dad. With Mom gone, Sam actually surprised me by making it last year in the safe house. I think this is the first Christmas Eve where I haven’t had it.”
My mind pulls up a memory of the last time my mom made our Christmas Eve meal. We were in the house in New Albany. Mom had spent the day running around, making clams and shrimp and mussels. Sam came over for dinner and we helped her steam the broccoli for the pasta and season the shrimp. And when we finally sat down, Dad had smiled and said, “Well, there aren’t seven fishes here, but these three look pretty good to me.” He fell asleep on the couch while Mom, Sam, and I watched Bing Crosby and Rosemary Clooney sing and dance in White Christmas. And at the end of the movie, as the entire cast sang Irving Berlin’s “White Christmas,” I looked over at my mother, her eyes glistening with predictable tears. She had caught me looking and smiled.
“This movie gets me every time,” she said, swatting tears off her cheek with the back of her hands before taking my cold fingers into her warm palm. “I hope we’re always together like this on Christmas.”
“Me too,” I said, not knowing that would be our very last Christmas together. I guess you
never really know when something will be your last. I wish I did. Because maybe I would have lingered longer on the couch with her that night. Asked about her favorite Christmas memories. Tucked away each precious moment in my mental memory box.
“So, Reagan, what was your favorite Christmas present you ever got?” Harper asks, pulling my attention back to our sad little Christmas Eve meal.
“Hmmm … I don’t know,” I reply and stare up at the glittering stars, flipping through the imaginary scrapbook in my brain. “We didn’t really do a ton of presents. A few toys from Santa and then some practical gifts like clothes or shoes or whatever from my parents. But one year, I remember I wanted an Easy-Bake Oven so badly and Santa actually brought me one. So that was probably my favorite gift.”
“Oh my gosh,” Harper says, her hand covering her mouth full of potatoes. “I totally wanted one of those but I never got one.”
“Making brownies and cakes using the heat from a light bulb,” I reply and take another bite of turkey. “What else do you need in life?”
“What about you, Harper?” Luke asks, pointing his fork, glistening with turkey gravy, at her. “What was your favorite Christmas present?”
“Ummm … probably my Barbie dream house,” Harper answers. “Oh. And my car. That was a pretty nice Christmas gift.”
“You think?” I say with a laugh. “What other sixteen-year-old wakes up to a fully loaded Range Rover with a big red bow in the driveway?”
“Being an only child has its perks,” Harper answers, raising her eyebrows and pulling at the ill-fitting flannel shirt I let her borrow. She looks back down at her plate, pushing the red-skinned potatoes around like hockey pucks. “They’re going to be lonely without me this Christmas.”
You Won't See Me Coming Page 8
