CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
“It’s my fault! It’s my fault!” I was both wailing and sobbing, tears and snot mixing in a disgusting stew of phlegm.
Josh had cleared us out of the hotel room in less than five minutes, and was weaving silently through the light evening traffic on I-25, his grim face ghostly in the dim light of the dashboard.
His jaw was tight, his eyes methodically switching focus like a man watching a tennis match. Forward to the windshield, up to the rearview mirror, left to the wing mirror, right to the passenger wing mirror, and repeat.
Around Caballo Lake, I ran out of steam. My wails turned to soft sobs, my sobs to snuffles and hiccups. I closed my eyes against the searing pain in my head and tried not to replay the image of Kahina’s bloody corpse in my mind.
My head was splitting open, so I dug through my purse for my pain meds and dry-swallowed a couple. The next thing I knew, Josh was shaking me awake. I startled out of the blackness, good arm flailing, fighting an unseen enemy.
“Shh! It’s okay!” he hissed. His face swam into focus. I could barely make him out in the dark; he had turned off the engine and all was silent except our labored breathing and the ticking of the engine as it cooled.
“Where are we?”
“Truth or Consequences. We need to change vehicles. This FJ Cruiser is like a beacon.” He wasn’t looking at me, but rather beyond me through the passenger window. I swiveled to look. It was a used-car lot, dimly lit and gated off.
“Looks like they’re closed for the night,” I said, stating the obvious.
“Yes.” Hard determination was pinching the corners of his eyes.
“I’m pretty sure it’s frowned upon for a federal agent to steal a car.”
He looked away from the lot long enough to trap me with his gaze. The cold steel behind his eyes caused a ripple of fear in me. Perhaps it was the tears he had shed in the hospital, or the gentleness with which he’d taken care of me. Whatever the reason, I had wrongly pegged him as a soft man. In the darkened car, there was nothing soft about him. He was all sharp edges and blunt force, ready to cut and bludgeon to get what he needed.
“I’m not a federal agent. Not anymore.” Josh jumped out of the car and slammed the door behind him, giving me one last piercing look that pinned me to my seat. I understood the silent order to stay put, and I wouldn’t have left the car if it caught fire around me.
Then who the hell are you? I wondered.
I waited in the ticking quiet of the FJ Cruiser for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, the dark shape of a fast-moving car appeared from the back of the lot. It aimed straight for the chain-link gate, breaking through with a shower of sparks and a horrible screeching sound as metal scraped against metal. The car swung around, fishtailing, and pulled to a stop in front of me.
Josh jumped out of the driver’s seat and trotted back to me. The engine was off, so I couldn’t lower the window. I opened the passenger door instead, and as soon as I did, I caught the dull bleating of the dealership’s alarm.
“Do you think you can drive?” He was huffing, a sheen of sweat visible on his cheeks and brow.
“I guess so,” I said without confidence. The pain had eased to a distant throb, but between my left arm and my right leg, I wasn’t really in my prime.
“Great. It won’t be far. But we need to get out of here. Fast.”
Well, duh.
He helped me out of the car and I limped around to the driver’s side. I needed a boost in, and he turned on the engine and adjusted the seat and mirrors back to my position.
“Just follow me,” he ordered, and trotted back to his stolen car, which was a silver Ford Fusion. He’d pulled off the price stickers, but there were no license plates.
Josh took care of that problem with haste, stopping in a residential neighborhood a mile away and lifting the plates off a late-model Subaru. Within minutes, he had them attached to the Ford and we were weaving out of Truth or Consequences northbound.
I trailed him past Elephant Butte Lake State Park, following the signs toward the municipal airport. He entered the long-term parking lot and stopped at the far end. I pulled into the stall beside him and cut the engine.
He opened my door. “Leave the key in the ignition.”
“Are you serious?”
He hauled me out of the car and pried the keys out of my hand.
“Wait a minute! I’m not abandoning my car!” I argued.
He stuffed me into the passenger seat of the Ford, then yanked the Toyota key off the ring and handed me the rest.
“Hey!”
“Ryanne.” His voice was terse. “If they don’t know what you drive by now, they will soon enough. That car will get us killed.”
Without waiting for further argument, he slammed the door in my face and emptied the trunk of the FJ, which had held his laptop bag and a metal briefcase. He yanked my purse out of the front, dumped his bags in the trunk of the Ford, and handed over my purse as he slid behind the steering wheel.
We took off with a screech of the tires, and I turned to get one last look at my FJ as we sped out of the parking lot. I felt like I was abandoning a faithful friend.
We stopped again in a quiet neighborhood in Socorro, and Josh switched the stolen plates for ones off an old Mercedes. We were back on the road within five minutes.
“Why did you attach the first plates to the Mercedes?” I asked.
“So it takes longer for them to notice their plates have been stolen.”
In Albuquerque, he switched out the plates for a third time before picking up the I-40 eastbound toward Texas.
The sky was just beginning to lighten as we approached Amarillo. Josh had insisted on driving the whole way, and he looked exhausted. There were dark-purple smudges under his eyes, and the five o’clock shadow on his face couldn’t hide the pale skin underneath.
He hadn’t relaxed his vigilance behind the wheel one iota, and drove through New Mexico like a man being chased by the demons of hell. Which perhaps he was. He changed lanes frequently, and several times he abruptly exited the freeway, only to pull back on again, watching the rearview mirror intently.
“What are you doing?” I exclaimed the first time we careened, kamikaze-style, down an exit ramp.
“Countersurveillance.” His voice was curt, angry even, and after that I kept my mouth shut.
While he didn’t lose the intensity of his vigilance, his shoulders relaxed a bit when we crossed into Texas. We pulled into a dismal-looking motel on the outskirts of Amarillo, and bounced across the cracked pavement to the back of the two-story building.
“Wait here while I get us a room,” he said as he shut off the engine.
“I want to come with you!”
“You’re covered in blood.”
“What . . . oh, shit!” I mewled in horror. In the first light of dawn, I could just make out the dark streaks on my shirt and jeans. There was blood smeared on my hands and crusted under my fingernails. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“Because there was nothing you could do about it. Wait here. Lock the door.”
Josh returned within minutes, and led me to a room at the far end. He helped me across the threshold like an unenthusiastic groom.
The room was drab and faded, and smelled like the last occupant enjoyed slaughtering cats while chowing down on Chinese food and beer. I hobbled directly to the dingy bathroom, which had mold rimming the cracked tiles and a burn mark on the sink counter. It looked like the perfect place to wash off blood, and I wondered how many people before me had done just that.
The shower was a tepid drizzle, and the bar of no-name soap was whittled down to a thin sliver. I wrapped the towel around my torso for modesty, rinsed my sling and hung it to dry, and left my disgusting clothes in a sodden heap on the bathroom floor.
I emerged clutching the
towel against my chest, but I needn’t have worried. Josh had wrapped himself in the bedspread, and was lying on the drab carpet against the door with his head on a folded-over pillow. He was snoring softly, like a faithful guard dog. His gun was tucked up against the pillow, his hand at rest a foot away.
After a careful inspection for bedbugs and gross stains, I eased under the blankets and laid my head against the lumpy pillow. Sleep pulled me down with its powerful undertow, and I succumbed gratefully to the dark waves of unconsciousness.
I awoke from a restless sleep filled with knives and blood. Josh was watching me from the depths of the armchair, three feet from my head. He was holding the gun loosely in his right hand, his suit crumpled, tie askew, and hair standing on end. He looked like a frat boy after a rough night of bingeing. Or maybe after a weekend in Vegas.
“What?” I asked.
The unblinking intensity of his stare made me squirm. Painfully aware of my state of undress, I pulled the sheet up to my chin. The towel was loose and twisted around my waist, and I wondered how much skin I had inadvertently exposed.
He blinked and sat back. “What size do you wear?”
“What?” I could feel the blush rising up my neck and warming my cheeks.
“You’re very small. Size two? Four?”
“Next you’ll be asking me how much I weigh. Didn’t your mom ever teach you manners?”
He blinked again, and a slow smile spread across his lips. I was surprised at how much I liked seeing it; vigilante Josh was kind of scary.
“Sorry, let me start again. I’m going to find a Walmart. We both need new clothes. If you write down a list of toiletries I’ll pick those up for you, too.” He ripped a page out of his pocket notebook and handed it to me with a pen.
I couldn’t very well argue. Until I had some clean clothes to wear, I would be stuck in this room. I wrote down my clothing, bra, and panty sizes, added my list of toiletries, and handed it back to him without meeting his eye.
“Um . . . do you prefer bikini, or thongs, or . . . ?” His skin was competing with mine to see whose could get the reddest.
“Bikini is fine.”
He grunted in response and left with mumbled instructions to lock the door behind him.
An hour and a quarter later, there was a gentle knock on the door. I dutifully peeked through the curtain before letting him in. In one hand, he was carrying several overflowing Walmart bags; in the other was a tray with two giant Starbucks cups.
“Coffee. You’re my hero.” Towel clutched around me, I stepped back from the door and watched him set everything down on the Formica table.
“I figured you wouldn’t let me back in without it.” He handed me a couple of bags and I retreated to the bathroom to wash up and get dressed. When I emerged, he was sitting at the table sipping his coffee and leafing through a newspaper.
“How do the clothes fit?” he asked.
“Fine, except . . . well, I think the top is a little low-cut.” I didn’t bother to mention that baby pink was the last color I would ever choose to wear.
“It looks good to me,” he replied, and then hastily looked back down at his newspaper, but not before I caught the flash of male heat in his eyes.
Oh, I thought.
After a moment of awkward silence, I grabbed my coffee and sat across from him. “So, what now?”
“Now, we eat,” he said, nodding at the bag on the table. With my good hand, I pulled out blueberry-bran muffins, raw cashews, yogurt, and bananas.
“Seriously?”
The corner of his mouth was twitching, but he didn’t look up from the newspaper. “Bon appétit.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Josh watched her eat over the top of his newspaper, trying not to grin every time she grimaced or sighed over the healthy breakfast he had provided. Although she managed to scarf down two muffins, a couple of handfuls of the nuts, and two bananas, one would have thought she was being tortured. She turned her nose up at the yogurt, claiming she couldn’t stomach the texture.
Josh couldn’t help but laugh at her look of childish glee when he presented her with the doughnuts he’d kept hidden beside him. She actually bounced up and down in her seat, as though he were a magician producing a rabbit out of a hat. He grabbed one of the honey-glazed and pushed the other three in her direction. She dug in with enthusiasm.
When she was on her second doughnut, Josh addressed her earlier question. “So, the first thing we have to do today is get our hands on as much cash as possible.”
“You’re not going to rob a bank, are you?”
“No, smart-ass. But we are going to have to clear out our accounts. Any idea how much you have?”
She shrugged. “A few thousand in my checking. Probably another five in savings.”
“Good. I’ve got about six grand I can lay my hands on. That should do, for now.”
“And then what are we going to do?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking about it. I don’t like being on the run; I don’t play well on defense. I’d rather be on offense, if you get my meaning.”
“Sure.”
“So the way I figure it, we could hole up somewhere and work on recovering your memory. See where that leads us. But I’d rather push forward on all fronts.”
“Right, that makes sense.” Her lips were glistening with sugar and he had to look away in order to concentrate.
“I want to go back to DC.”
“You mean where hit men are waiting to snuff you out?”
“It’s where all my leads are. Sumner Macey, the Department of Education. And there’s a certain deputy director I’d like to pay a visit to.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, I am,” he said with grim determination. “Deputy Director Warner has some explaining to do.”
“Josh, I told you before: he’s a dangerous man.”
“So am I.” He didn’t know what she saw in his eyes, but whatever it was caused her to swallow hard.
“Okay,” she conceded. “So, what? You’re just going to go storming into his office?”
“No. We’re going to have to fly under the radar from here on out. We’re being hunted; there’s no doubt in my mind about that.”
“I know.” Her face was grim.
“Ryanne, from now on, you need to follow my orders. Do you understand that?” Her eyes were so big, doelike, and full of anxiety. He continued anyway.
“You have to trust me, and do exactly what I say. This is not some macho bullshit. I’ve been trained for this. You have not.” He took her hand across the table, wanting to somehow soften the blow. “What you did yesterday, in Kahina’s house, was extremely dangerous. It could have gotten us killed.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry.”
“I won’t always have time to explain things to you, so you can’t question me like you did about dumping the FJ. I need you to trust me, and follow my orders immediately and without question. My top priority is your protection; the investigation is secondary. But I need your help to keep you safe.”
“I need to learn how to protect myself, too,” she said quietly.
“You’re right. I’ll teach you what I can.”
“Okay.” She snuffled back the tears. “So what’s our first move? After getting the money, I mean.”
“We’re going to need help, and I only know one person I can trust.”
“Who is that?”
“His name is Phil Lagrudo. He was the sheriff in Elkhorn when you went missing.”
Their first stop was at a Bank of America on the west side of Amarillo, where Ryanne withdrew all but five hundred dollars from her accounts. Josh explained that withdrawing every last cent would raise eyebrows, and it was best to avoid that. The next stop was a Wells Fargo near the airport, where Josh withdrew his cash. Then they
drove south through Amarillo and filled up with gas just off the freeway on the edge of town.
“Why are we doing this?” Ryanne finally asked.
“We’re about to go dark,” he said. “I want it to seem likely that we headed south from Amarillo.”
He was marking out the winding route to Nebraska on a map he’d purchased at Walmart. “It looks like it will take about eleven hours, plus stops,” he muttered, pen in his mouth as he folded the map and smoothed out the page so Ryanne could easily refer to it along the way. There were a lot of twists and turns along rural routes until they reached Kansas, and he would need her to guide him.
“You know, I have Google Maps on my phone. Wouldn’t that be easier? Especially in the dark?” The sun was already low in the sky. They only had another couple of hours of daylight left.
“Shit! Turn off your phone. They can track you that way.” He had turned off his phone while leaving Las Cruces the previous evening, but hadn’t thought about Ryanne’s.
She pulled her iPhone out of her purse and turned it off without further comment, but he saw her gaze dart around the gas station, looking for danger.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said gruffly.
They watched the sun rise over the Platte River in silence, both lost in their own thoughts. Josh was remembering fishing trips with his father, camping by the river on summer nights, and, in later years, male bonding over bonfires and beer.
He wondered what Ryanne was thinking, if any memories were sparking for her. Her expression was unreadable, deep and sad, as the gold light of dawn kissed her skin through the windshield. Josh opened his mouth, and then closed it again without speaking.
When the last streaks of pink gave way to morning light, he started the car and drove slowly into Elkhorn.
It was just before seven a.m. when they pulled to a stop in front of Phil Lagrudo’s beige stucco house on Honeysuckle Drive, less than two miles from where Ryanne had disappeared over twenty years before.
The Faithful Page 23
