“They questioned me about my friends, after they were arrested.”
His nod was short, almost a jerking movement. He didn’t seem the ignorant type, but if he understood the risk, he wouldn’t hide her in his home. He wouldn’t offer assistance at all. Apparently nobody ever told him about felony charges, about lines in the sand. A draft from the cracked window caught Aubrey’s face, and she bunched the jacket’s surplus fabric in one hand.
“If they connect us in any way, they can take you in, maybe even arrest you.”
Again, the jerking nod.
“I don’t mean if they find me at your house. I mean if they realize you’ve even talked to me.”
“I know.”
No, he didn’t, and she couldn’t accept help from him when he lacked a full picture of the danger. She had to paint it for him. “They’ll keep you awake for days. They’ll say things you know aren’t true but sound like they are. They’ll find out who you most want safe and threaten to kill him.”
When none of those words would come, her mouth supplied others. “Last week, there was a couple arrested, James and Karlyn Cole.”
He nodded again.
“Karlyn’s the friend the con-cops questioned me about. I’ve known her and Jim for years. And that news story was a pack of lies.”
Did the silence mean he didn’t believe her, or he was listening?
“Jim couldn’t attack the con-cops like they said. He can’t get around most days without a walker. They made it up, because somehow Jim and Karlyn hid their Bibles too well to find.”
The wind-whipped quiet tunneled into Aubrey’s mind. He’d pull over now and tell her to get out.
“I know,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Jim’s got MS.”
Marcus ignored her stare. The seconds stretched until they tore on words she didn’t expect to hear from herself. “He prepares a table.”
Marcus’s face tightened in surprise. “Before us.”
Residual doubt washed away. He was a Christian. A stupid Christian. “You’re taking me to your house, to—what, hide me in the spare room?”
Another short nod. The motion made her want to scream, to grab his Atlas-sized shoulders and shake him.
“That is completely crazy,” she said.
“Nothing else to do.”
“Hand me a twenty and wish me luck, like a normal person. Marcus, they will lock you up and throw away the key. They’ll—”
“I know.” One hand leaped up to his neck and clenched his knuckles white. “They’ll lock me up. I’ll die locked up. I know.”
The grip on his neck didn’t ease for a long minute, and they drove onward without further conversation.
Time stretched into moments of illogical ecstasy at how long she’d managed to evade the con-cops, then moments of terror that they were gaining behind her, or lurking before her, around the next curve in the two-lane road. Maybe this was hysteria. She had to keep swallowing the demand that Marcus let her out of the truck. She had to find Elliott, to hold him, soft and trusting, his head nestled in the crook of her arm. She had to babble at him, even though the words couldn’t reach his mind or heart. She had to know the con-cops hadn’t harmed him to get to her.
By the time Marcus pulled into a serene, tree-lined subdivision, Aubrey knew she had to tell him thanks and good-bye.
He pulled the truck into the attached garage, turned it off, and hit a button to lower the hefty wooden door behind them. Horizontal blinds on the garage windows completed Aubrey’s feeling of fortress. Nobody could see her in here.
“Okay,” Marcus said and opened his door.
Aubrey did the same, then jumped down to the concrete floor. The impact smarted through her ankles. Marcus headed for the back door with his house key already in hand. The few other keys bobbed and clinked against the Swiss army knife that dangled in their midst.
“I’ve got a dog,” he said, shoving the key into the lock, “but she—”
“I’m not staying.”
His hand froze to the doorknob. “You don’t have anywhere to go,” he said as if she might have forgotten.
“My son wants his mommy back.”
“You can’t go looking for him.”
“I have to. I’m his mother.”
He stepped away from the door, closer to her. “Aubrey. You can’t go looking for him.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Anything you try to do, anybody you try to contact—it’ll be traced.”
“Hiding in your house will not get him back.”
“Neither will getting arrested.”
“Marcus, thank you, for everything. Here—your jacket.” He didn’t take it, so she draped it over the truck’s hood. A tremor zipped down her spine at the idea of abandoning these secure walls for exposure outside, but she headed for the door on the side of the garage.
“Wait,” he said.
Listening to him another minute would puncture her scant courage. She grasped the cold doorknob and turned it.
“Aubrey.” His fingers closed around her forearm.
“Let me go.”
He did, only to plant himself between her and the door. His warm hand pried hers from the doorknob. She tried to sidestep him, but he blocked her. The powerful arms and torso, first noticeable in the store when he removed his jacket, transformed from protection to threat.
“You can’t keep me here,” she said, though he could.
“I’ll find your son.”
She turned her head toward the wall.
“Nobody can get him back overnight,” Marcus said.
“He’s four months old, and old ladies in Kroger love his smile, and he likes this jack-in-the-box Mom bought him, and he was born deaf, and he’s …”
Marcus didn’t move. “Stay for now. It’s the safest thing. Please.”
“You’re going to help me get him back. Away from them. Soon.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay,” she whispered.
The nod didn’t madden this time. He eased away from the door as if she might lunge for it and bolt.
Aubrey followed him to the back door and waited for him to push the dog back inside. He didn’t touch it, though, simply thrust an open hand, palm out, under its nose. It backed up quickly, toenails scraping tile.
“Okay,” he said to Aubrey, then closed the door behind her. “This is Indy.”
“Can I pet him?” The German shepherd eyed Marcus as if for instructions.
“Her,” he said automatically. “Sure.” He dropped a hand onto the dog’s head and rubbed between her ears while Aubrey stroked her sleek back.
“Would she hurt anybody?”
“If they tried to come in without me.” Indy licked his free hand.
Aubrey stepped back. Vigilant eyes gazed at her from the dog’s black face.
“Don’t worry,” Marcus said. “She knows you’re accepted now.”
“Would Indy happen to be short for Indiana?”
His mouth didn’t smile, but amusement creased around his eyes. “No, actually.”
“Not short for anything?”
“For, um, Indutiae. It’s Latin.”
“No kidding.”
“A friend named her,” he said. “It was too much to call her all the time, so I shortened it.”
“What’s the translation?”
He looked down at the dog for a moment, then met her eyes again. “Truce.”
“Sounds like there’s a story behind it.”
He nodded.
“A … personal story?”
Another nod, and then he led her from the laundry room to the small kitchen. A few crumbs dotted the counter, but the sink was clean and empty.
“Well.” Marcus’s quick glance trav
eled past the end of the kitchen into the living room, then back to her. “I’m late for my last job. If you get hungry, help yourself. I don’t cook, but there’s stuff you can throw together.”
“So the fridge isn’t crammed with beer and leftover pizza?”
“No beer,” he said. “Maybe some pizza.”
He was opening his castle to a stranger. Aubrey smiled to battle the resurgence of tears. “Thanks.”
15
Nosiness was not to blame for Aubrey’s self-guided tour of Marcus’s house. He hadn’t given her permission to explore, but as the hours passed, idleness bred images until she’d either scream or flee: her son wailing, gripped in gray-clad arms, dumped into a cold crib and left to cry.
Marcus’s dog wasn’t really lying down, merely sitting with bent elbows. She may have her stomach to the floor, but her head was poised erect over her paws. Her eyes tracked Aubrey’s every move. When Aubrey ventured from this room to the next, Indy pushed to her feet and followed.
“You don’t mind, do you?” she said. Indy didn’t blink. “I’ll take that as permission.”
Aubrey couldn’t bring herself to trespass into his bedroom beyond a peek from the doorway. The rest of the house held a clean, steadfast simplicity. Every room’s walls unfolded beige and bare. A woven afghan was tossed over the back of the living room couch, but the room held not a single throw pillow. Remotes for the TV and DVD player lay parallel on an end table that ached for a doily. The entire house was paved in solid, shining hardwood, and every piece of furniture, from kitchen table to bedroom nightstand, announced itself genuine as well.
“I guess Marcus likes wood,” Aubrey said to the dog at her heels. Veneer seemed sacrilegious within these walls.
What her mother would find sacrilegious was the single bookshelf in his living room. His DVD collection spanned a wall, but his books numbered no more than a couple dozen, and that was only if she counted the handyman and carpentry magazines lining one shelf with their ragged spines. She tugged one out and flipped it open. Dog-eared pages, highlighted pages, missing pages, spilled-on pages. He also had a book on film theory, but it looked brand new. His copy of the Constitution was not as abused as the magazines but was clearly read. Sandwiched between them sat a worn leather address book, which she left unopened, and a children’s illustrated hardcover Treasure Island, the only fiction book in his shelf. How random.
She completed her tour before Marcus called to question her on clothing sizes. She’d give him her remaining cash when he got home. She tried to appreciate his thoughtfulness, but why did it matter if she wore her work clothes threadbare? Not that he would listen, of course. In fact, he sounded perturbed that she dared protest.
When she finally hung up the phone, her stomach grumbled. Well, he’d told her to eat without him.
The fridge was hardly crowded. Carry-out pizza and a carton of Chinese occupied the top shelf. Beneath that stood a battalion of pop cans and flavored coffee creamers, half a loaf of slouching white bread, deli lunch meat, eggs, condiments … and on the bottom shelf, two glass containers. A baking pan covered in gleaming foil, and a small lidded bowl of green salad.
Aubrey opened the salad first. Sliced tomatoes, carrots, green peppers, purple onions, egg whites, bacon bits—all decorated a variety of greens. So Marcus didn’t cook, but he labored over salad.
Removing the foil on the glass pan shattered that theory. An inquisitive meatball peeked from the white cheese slathered over homemade spaghetti. Truly homemade—Aubrey would bet her last eleven dollars that was no prepackaged meatball. If Marcus “didn’t cook,” what on earth did she do?
She tucked the foil back around the spaghetti and pressed the plastic lid back onto the salad bowl. The sight of it all increased her stomach’s complaints, but she’d wait for Marcus.
The key didn’t rattle the lock until almost 8:00. Indy abandoned her guarding of Aubrey to rush the door like an excited child, her tail beating the air for the first time since Marcus had left.
“Hi,” he said from the laundry room, and Aubrey headed over to answer him, then realized he was talking to the dog.
Marcus crossed into the kitchen with Indy’s head pressed into his hand. A fine gray dust salted the top of his hair. “Hi,” he said, this time to Aubrey, and plunked two strained plastic shopping bags onto the counter. “Clothes.”
“Thanks.” She lifted the first article from the top of the crushed pile, a heather-gray sweater with peasant sleeves and a modest keyhole neckline. Aubrey dug to find two identical tops, one in brick red and one in dark chocolate, and beneath that, two pairs of jeans. Did he want her indebted to him?
“Did you eat?” Marcus said.
“What is all this?” She unearthed yellow thermal separates from the bottom of the bag. “I told you not to buy pajamas.”
“You’ve got to sleep in something.”
“And I told you I could sleep in anything.”
“It’s no problem. You need clothes.”
She dumped the rest of the bag onto the counter. He’d purchased everything but a bra, even a four-pack of white ankle socks. “I can’t believe this.”
His frown seemed knit from real confusion, but he said nothing. He crossed the kitchen to hang his keys on the wall rack.
“Marcus, why did you buy this stuff? What do you want?”
He shrugged out of his jacket to reveal a brown T-shirt a shade darker than his eyes, covered with the same dust that coated his hair. He removed his wallet from his back pocket and tossed it onto the table. “I want you to wear the clothes. And not worry about the money. They’re from Wal-Mart.”
As if quality was the point here. Right now, Wal-Mart was as unaffordable to her as Nordstrom’s. He tugged off his scuffed work shoes, and his foot pushed them against a wall. Disquiet still crinkled between his eyes. Maybe he simply wished to take care of her for as long as she hid here. Logic reasserted itself. Wearing the clothes would not jeopardize her son any further, would not signal disregard for where he was.
“Okay,” she said.
Marcus gave a short nod. “Well, did you eat?”
“I couldn’t dig in. You haven’t even cut into it yet.”
“What?”
With a snap, Aubrey jerked a plastic tag from the pajama bottoms. “I take it we’re having spaghetti and salad.”
“You made spaghetti? But I don’t have noodles and stuff.”
“What are you, a sleepwalking chef?”
Marcus strode to the refrigerator and yanked it open. “Oh.”
“The sauce is homemade, isn’t it?”
He slid the glassware onto the counter. He half removed the foil, and an edge of it tore. “Yeah. But I didn’t make this. It’s from a friend.”
“And you forgot you had it?”
“It wasn’t here when I left for work.”
“So somebody delivered it to you, straight to your fridge.”
The stove’s controls beeped with each press of his thumb. He crinkled the edges of the foil back in place, slid the whole pan inside, and closed the oven. “Yeah.”
“And Indy let them waltz right in?”
“It was Lee,” Marcus said as if the name explained itself.
“So …?”
“She’s the only other person Indy would never attack. I had Lee help me train her, so Indy would obey her, too.”
Hm. “Did Lee name her?”
He nodded, pulled out his phone, and dialed. He paced to the living room as if Aubrey couldn’t hear every word he said from the kitchen.
“You brought spaghetti. … You didn’t call me back. … It—it didn’t happen today, did it? … Well, thanks for the food. It looks good. … Indy says hi. … Okay. You’re sure you’re okay. … Then I’ll talk to you later.”
Wow, so they weren’t a flirty couple or a bantering couple. What kind of
woman was she, Lee the Latin-Speaking Chef, who preserved Marcus from a diet of pure fast food and held a key to his house? She must have a high-maintenance side, based on Marcus’s worried tone and the name she’d given his dog.
His head popped back into the kitchen—“I’m going to take a shower”—then disappeared again.
He reemerged in minutes. The black T-shirt clung to his chest, and his hair almost curled when damp. Probably would, if it were longer. Aubrey broke off her stare before he could notice it, but he seemed oblivious. He pulled the dishwasher open and stacked plates without regard for the clatter, then moved around the kitchen, shoving them and glassware into cabinets. He waved off her attempt to help.
“So how often does Lee bring food over here?” Aubrey said when he’d finished restocking the silverware drawer.
“Once or twice a week. She likes to cook.”
“So do I let her in?”
“No,” Marcus said, too quickly. “Lee doesn’t know you’re here.”
Of course. “She’d turn me in.”
“No. But she has to stay away from all this.”
The blaze behind his eyes required no guesswork. He didn’t distrust Lee, and he didn’t anticipate misinterpretation or jealousy. He simply wanted her safely behind the line in the sand that he ignored for himself.
“What happened to Elliott’s dad?”
Aubrey ought to be able to answer while meeting Marcus’s eyes, but her gaze lowered to Indy, stretched on the taupe throw rug in front of the sink.
“We’re not together anymore,” she said.
“Did he leave?”
“Um … in a way, he did, yes.” By showing himself to be a person she couldn’t stay with.
The blaze that had subsided only seconds ago revived in Marcus’s gaze. He opened the oven. Checking the food? The timer wouldn’t go off for another five minutes.
“What?” Aubrey said.
“Nothing.”
Right. Did he think …? “It wasn’t abandonment, Marcus.”
The oven door shut with a forceful click.
“It wouldn’t have worked.”
“You should’ve been given a vote on it.” He balled up a stray paper towel and thrust it into the trash.
Seek and Hide: A Novel (Haven Seekers) Page 10
