by Diane Kelly
We walked out to the car and Seth opened the door for me. I squeezed into the backseat and greeted his grandfather with a squeeze on the shoulder. “Nice to see you again, Ollie.”
He replied with a grunt, but it sounded like a relatively happy grunt, if there was such a thing.
We headed up Interstate 35 until we reached the speedway. The event was popular, and the parking lot was packed. I feared that Ollie might have a hard time pulling his oxygen tank along behind him, but we walked slow and he seemed to manage fine.
After buying tickets at the counter, we went inside. Parked all along the racetrack were vintage cars arranged by the year of production. At the beginning was a 1908 Model T. It had none of today’s safety features. No airbags. No seat belts. No warning lights on the dashboard. Amazing how far things had come in a hundred and ten years.
Ollie leaned in to take a look at the motor. “Would you look at that?” he said to Seth. “That’s about as simple as an engine can get.”
We moved on, eventually making our way to models released in the 1940s and 1950s. Ollie quickened his pace when he spotted a turquoise and white 1956 Bel Air, moving so fast he nearly ran over a man’s foot with his oxygen tank.
Seth and I followed him. He stared at the car, dazed, as if seeing something none of the rest of us could see. “My father had a car just like this,” he said softly. “I took Ruthie out in it on our first date.”
I stepped up beside him. “Where’d you take her?”
“Drive-in movies. I wanted to see Thunderball, but she wanted to see Doctor Zhivago. I told her I’d flip a coin to decide. We went to Doctor Zhivago.”
“So she won the coin toss,” I said.
“Nope,” he replied. “It came up heads. I flipped it five more times. Got heads every time. I finally told her we could go see her movie if she promised to kiss me good night. Best kiss I ever got.”
My “aww” was nearly drowned out by Seth’s “eww.” I guess nobody likes to think of their grandparents feeling romantic.
After marveling at the early automobiles and buying soft pretzels and drinks, we moved on to Seth’s favorites, the muscle cars of the 1960s and 1970s. We passed a pristine blue Shelby Mustang. A Dodge Daytona in bright red. A gold Pontiac GTO. The image spread across the hood of a black 1978 Firebird reminded me of the army-eagle tattoo spread across Seth’s back. It had been a while since I’d seen it. With the unofficial overtime I’d been putting it, I hadn’t had a lot of free time lately. Our irregular work schedules also didn’t help matters much. Of course I knew I wouldn’t be working nine to five once I made detective, either. But one thing to be said for our situation was that we didn’t get sick of each other. I supposed that was a plus.
We eased on to a 1978 AMC Pacer.
“I remember when these first came out.” Ollie leaned in to peek inside. “I thought they looked like a fishbowl on wheels. Ugliest car ever made.”
“Worse than the Gremlin or Yugo?” Seth asked.
“Hands down.”
We moved on to a shiny, burgundy-on-ice Cadillac Coupe DeVille.
“Wow,” I said. “This car’s nearly as long as a bus.”
Eventually we wound our way around to the spec cars of the future, which included a solar-powered model.
“Wonder how long until we’ll be driving that,” I said. “Sure would be nice n-not to have to stop for gas all the time.”
After the car show, we stopped for Mexican food at Joe T. Garcia’s in the northside neighborhood. Like many of the cars we’d seen earlier, the restaurant had been around a long time, over eighty years. That’s a whole lotta enchiladas.
It was reasonably early, and we were lucky enough to get a table on the extensive patio.
Over margaritas, I asked Seth if he remembered the first time we’d come to the restaurant together.
“Yep,” he said. “It was right after that bomb exploded in the mall.”
It had been a harrowing experience and left me shaken, but had it not happened I wouldn’t have met Seth. Funny how things turn out, isn’t it? “I definitely needed a margarita then.” Heck, I’d needed a dozen.
We continued to chat throughout the meal. Occasionally Ollie slipped back into grump mode, but for the most part he was content and tolerable. I only hoped this new, happier him wasn’t just a phase. It sure would be nice if Seth’s family could start putting their dysfunction behind them.
When they drove me home, Ollie waited in the car while Seth walked me to the door and gave me a good-night kiss.
“Eww!” Ollie hollered through the open window of the car. When we turned his way, he called, “Two can play that game, Seth.”
“That’s fair,” Seth called back before giving me another kiss. He put his forehead to mine. “See you later. And stop worrying about the baby’s mother. You’ll find her.”
He’d read my subtle signals. Though I’d tried to be as attentive as possible at the car show, my mind kept going back to the young woman in the blue hat and the young man who’d tried to reach her. Where were they? Were they okay? Were they even still alive?
* * *
Sunday morning found me online, once again searching eBay and other online sites to see if Felicia Bloomquist’s inventory showed up for sale from a seller in north Texas. Though I found several people selling Nouveau Toi, Manhattan Metals, Baubles, Vestments, and Eleanor Neely products, I found no single seller offering products from more than one of the lines.
Given that I was already up, I decided to meet up with my family and attend mass. It had been a while.
As I sat in the pew between my sister Gabby and my brother Joey, I contemplated the predicament. I needed to get to the young man and woman, but how? If only we could communicate, they could tell me what to do, how I could help. But short of smoke signals, skywriting, carrier pigeon, or drone, I had no way of getting a message into the compound—assuming they even were in the compound. I closed my eyes and silently prayed for God’s guidance in helping the baby’s mother and the young man.
Unfortunately, no booming voice came from the heavens, telling me what to do. Darn. I opened my eyes, finding them aimed at the Bible in the rack in front of me. Hmm.
My mind went back to the draft of the sermon I’d seen on Father Emmanuel’s desk in the church office at the People of Peace compound. Where did that quote about a time for everything come from again? Ecclesiastes?
I reached out and snagged the Bible, laying it on my lap. I scanned until I found the verses I’d been searching for at the beginning of chapter three. To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven. Basically, the rest of the verse dealt in opposites. Birth and death. Planting and reaping. Killing and healing. Breaking down and building up. Weeping and laughing. Mourning and dancing. Rending and sewing. Staying silent and speaking. Love and hate. War and peace.
Wait. A time to rend, and a time to sew.
And then it hit me, as certainly as God’s voice from above.
The baby’s mother had sewn her message into the bluebonnet quilt, and the message had reached me. If I wanted to reach her, maybe all I had to do was the same—sew a message in the trim of one of her quilts. I could buy one at the store in Benbrook, rend it, sew a message into it, and return the blanket to the store with a request that it be repaired. The blanket would be taken back to the baby’s mother and, with any luck, she’d discover my message and respond, telling me where she was.
The idea was a smart one, and must have come from divine inspiration. I raised my head, looked up at Jesus on the cross, and gave Him a discreet thumbs-up. Was it just my imagination, or had He winked at me?
Gabby glanced my way, a confused look on her face. I pretended to be scratching my belly with my thumb. No sense telling her God had just spoken to me directly through His book. She might think I’d gone crazy. Heck, maybe I had.
As soon as mass concluded, I bade a quick good-bye to my family. I was eager to get out to the store, to buy a bluebon
net blanket so that I could get it back before the man from the People of Peace came by in the morning to collect their earnings and drop off new inventory. Otherwise, I’d have to wait another week. I wasn’t sure the young woman—or I—could wait that long.
My mother frowned. “You’re not coming home for lunch?”
“Sorry,” I said. “I can’t. I’ve got a work emergency.”
As I scurried off, I heard her ask my father, “Work emergency? Did she get a phone call or something?”
I was out of earshot before he could respond, already dialing Detective Jackson to share my idea with her. I was only a beat cop, not a detective. My plan could only proceed with her go-ahead.
“I have an idea,” I said when she answered. “A way we can get a message to the baby’s mom, figure out where she is.”
“How in the world would we do that?”
I told her my idea. “She sent a message by stitching it on the blanket, and it went unnoticed.” By everyone but me, at least. “If I use the same color thread as the trim, I think I can send her a secret message, too.”
“It’s worth a shot,” Jackson said. “It’s also very clever. Good job, Megan.”
If I’d been a K-9, my plan would’ve earned me a liver treat.
Minutes later, I was speeding down the road in my little Smart Car. I whipped into the bank and zipped into the drive-up ATM, withdrawing three hundred dollars and shoving them into my purse before taking off again. Not long thereafter, I turned into the parking lot of the Benbrook Burgers, Beer, and Bait shop.
I hurried inside, rushed past the day’s cashier, and aimed straight for the quilts. I dug through the stack, which was much smaller than it had been earlier in the week. The one with the Texas flags had sold. The one with the moon and stars was still here. There was a cactus-themed one I hadn’t seen before. But not a single quilt with bluebonnets. Darn it!
The clerk, a platinum blonde in her thirties, came over. “Can I help you with something?”
“I saw a quilt here earlier in the week,” I said. “A real pretty one with bluebonnets on it.”
“The bluebonnet quilt is our best seller,” she said, echoing what the other saleslady had told me. “We don’t have one in stock right now, but we get shipments on Monday mornings. I’m expecting another one tomorrow.”
Ugh! I was already frustrated, and now there would be a chance someone could get to it before me.
“Can you set it aside for me?” I asked. “I really, really want one. Bad.”
“It’s normally first come, first served,” she said.
“What if I pay you for it now?” I pleaded.
She raised a shoulder. “If you’re willing to pay in advance, I don’t see why we can’t hold it for you.”
“Fantastic!” I took her by the shoulders. “Thank you so much!”
She smiled and gave me an odd look, probably wondering why a blanket would mean so much to anyone.
I followed her to the cash register, where I paid her in cash. She wrote “Prepayment for bluebonnet quilt” on the receipt and handed it to me.
“What’s your name? I’ll need to leave a note for the woman who works during the week.”
I gave her a combination of my sister’s and my roommate’s. “Gabby Kerrigan.” No sense using my real name. Everyone from the People of Peace had had a chance to read my name tag when we spoke with them last Thursday. If they happened to hear the name Luz, or see it written down somewhere, they might get suspicious and blow my plan.
She jotted the fictitious name down before looking back up at me. “The quilts are usually here by ten at the latest.”
“Great,” I said. “I’ll come by then.”
THIRTY-NINE
ON THE SEVENTH DAY, HE RESTED
Brigit
The dog had no real concept of weeks or months or years. She only knew that occasionally Megan left the house and came back smelling vaguely of incense. On those days, Brigit got to be lazy. The dog loved her job, but she loved being lazy, too. Sleeping in. Napping on the couch. Taking a snooze on the rug. Was there anything better than lying on her back in a sunny spot and soaking up the rays?
When Megan returned, Brigit could sense her excitement. She wasn’t sure what Megan was all worked up about, but whatever it was seemed big. Brigit could only hope that it would lead to a lot of liver treats.
FORTY
HOUSE ARREST
Father Emmanuel
It was Monday morning now, and the men in the watch towers hadn’t seen the cop and her dog at all since they’d left with the detective last Thursday. Zeke said the women seemed to accept his explanation, that the baby’s mother had fled to parts unknown and he had no way of tracking her down. The ordeal seemed to finally be over for good.
Still, just in case someone was somehow watching them surreptitiously, he’d had the men string tarps between the trees, essentially creating a canopy over the compound, making it impossible to see inside. If only he’d thought of that sooner. Maybe he could have prevented the detective and her beat cop minions from invading the compound at all. He hadn’t appreciated them asserting their authority in his kingdom, making him look weak in front of his people.
He wouldn’t let it happen again.
Of course he’d told the flock that the tarps had been put up for next week’s fish fry. A lot of planning had gone into the event, and they needed to be ready in case the weather didn’t cooperate. They’d bought the explanation, just as they bought everything he told them. These people had no interest in thinking for themselves. It was easier for them to simply be told what to do and believe.
In addition to having the tarps installed, he’d also kept both Juliette and Luke on house arrest in their respective bunkhouses. Luke could sand the furniture there, and Juliette could still work on her blankets. Emmanuel would be damned if those two would cost him another dime.
FORTY-ONE
A TIME TO REND
Megan
I was scheduled for the swing shift Monday, so I was able to run by the Benbrook Burgers, Bait, and Beer around eleven in civilian clothes. I’d curled my long hair and layered on the makeup, hoping the saleslady wouldn’t recognize me as the cop who’d been in before and asked about the quilts.
I needn’t have worried. The woman I’d spoken to the day I’d discovered the quilts was busy setting up a display of pottery in the far corner and another clerk was running the register.
“Hi,” I told the woman. “I’m Gabby Kerrigan. I paid for a quilt yesterday.” I laid the receipt I’d been given on the counter so she could take a look. “The quilt was supposed to be delivered this morning.”
The woman reached down under the counter. “Got it right here.” She pulled out a bluebonnet quilt and laid it on the counter.
I fought the urge to squeal. “Thanks!”
She bagged the blanket in an oversized gift bag and handed it to me. “Enjoy.”
I drove back home and took the quilt inside, spreading it out across my bed. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” I asked Brigit.
She responded with a wag of her tail.
A twinge of guilt puckered my gut when I thought about what I was about to do to the quilt. The young woman had put a lot of time and skill and care into crafting the quilt, and here I was, about to rip the thing up. It was a shame things had come to this, but I had no choice. It was the only way I could think of to get in contact with the baby’s mother.
I picked up a corner of the blanket, grabbed the front in one hand, the back in the other, and pulled. The fabric didn’t budget. This is solid craftsmanship. It was going to take something more than my bare hands to tear the blanket apart. I laid the quilt down and ventured into the kitchen to retrieve a pair of scissors from the junk drawer. Just as I was about to cut into it, Brigit looked up at me, cocked her head, and issued a canine question. Arrur? Translation: What the heck are you doing?
It dawned on me that a clean cut with scissors might look intentional and raise s
uspicions. But a ragged tear made by dog teeth? That kind of thing happened by accident.
“Okay, girl,” I told her, as I lowered the corner of the blanket in front of her. “I want you to be naughty. Take this blanket in your teeth and rip it.”
Brigit cocked her head in the other direction. She doesn’t get it.
Her mouth hung open slightly as she panted, so I slipped the corner of the blanket inside. She pulled her head back and crinkled her nose. Still not getting it.
Leaving the blanket there, I returned to the kitchen and snatched a slice of American cheese from the drawer in the fridge. I went back to the bedroom, used the scissors to cut a small slit in one of the bluebonnets, and rolled up the cheese, stuffing it inside. Done, I dropped the blanket to the floor.
Brigit put her nose down, sniffing the blanket. She looked up at me, her furry forehead furrowed. “It’s okay, girl,” I told her. “Get the cheese.”
Still, she seemed hesitant.
“Where was this good behavior back when you were chewing up my shoes?” I asked her.
I picked up the quilt and started roughhousing with it. I wrapped it around her midsection and pulled, dragging her across the floor. “Come on, Brigit!” I whipped it around as if I were a matador and she were a bull. “Toro! Toro, Brigit! Tear this thing up!”
She reached out with her teeth and grabbed it, looking up at me to gauge my response.
“Good girl!” I said. “Get it! Get it good!”
I pulled back on the blanket and she and I played tug-of-war until the fabric making up the bluebonnet tore with a rrrriiiippp!
“Okay, girl,” I said. “That’s enough.”
But I’d unleashed a monster. Now that Brigit had experienced the perverse joy of destruction, she wasn’t about to stop. She attacked the quilt with a vengeance, tufts of cotton flying through the air.
“Stop!” I shouted. Besides the fact that I’d paid $250 for the thing and had hoped it could truly be repaired, if she tore it beyond repair my plan would be foiled. The store clerk would suggest I buy a new one. “Stop!” I yelled again.
