Found and Lost

by Amanda G. Stevens

  And she’d discovered why Marcus let her go, recorded in Matthew and Luke. Jesus had said it multiple times.

  “Love your enemies.”

  “Do good to those who hate you.”

  “Pray for those who persecute you.”

  Though she hadn’t hated the Christians, she was a persecutor. The word was a nettle in her heart, but she couldn’t deny it. Had Marcus prayed for her?

  She opened to the place she’d left off, the pink ribbon bookmark. Strange that it was pink, because the few instances of handwriting in the margins were definitely a man’s. Black ink, small and neat letters. Beside Jesus’s words on the cross, “It is finished,” the man had written, Nothing left to pay. And every time Jesus told someone, “Your sins are forgiven,” the words were underlined. She found even more underlining when she reached the book of John. Mentions of persecution or tribulation, being hated by the world, being free when set free by Jesus—all of these things, the man had underlined. She flipped through the Bible at random, searching for more underlining, and found a lot of it, mostly in Romans and Hebrews.

  If this man was like all the other fugitive Christians, then Violet could begin to understand them. Their hidden hearts beat in every careful line of black pen, in the verses this man held closest to him, the ones about persecution and difficulty and trusting that Jesus would overcome whatever happened to a person here on earth. He believed with as much certainty as Janelle. He knew he had sinned, but he also knew the sins were paid for.

  Were Violet’s sins paid for?

  She thought so. She hoped so.

  She stretched out her legs across the car, and her heels bumped the passenger door. She rolled the windows down further, but the air hung like a veil today. Sweat darkened her top. At least she had extras now, though who knew when she’d be able to do laundry. She read pages and pages, the rest of Luke, the whole book of John. This was the end of the Jesus books. It was time to talk to Him.

  Her eyes closed. Her hands shook a little. Because the Jesus she spoke to wasn’t the easygoing, tolerant, inspirational teacher. To really speak to Jesus, she would have to address the Man who confronted, who loved, who healed and scolded.

  “Nothing left to pay.”

  Nothing left to do, except talk to Him. She rested her forehead on the steering wheel.

  “Um. Jesus, I’m so sorry. That You died. I wish You hadn’t been hurt like that, but—but thank You for paying. I—I had some things screwed up, and I did some things—” A sob ripped her chest. Her shoulders heaved to keep it in, but Jesus had cried too. So it was okay. “Jesus, I’m sorry. I thought I was doing good. But they’re Your followers, and I—oh, God, Jesus, Janelle. I’m so sorry about Janelle.”

  She held the Bible to her chest and rocked it. The tears came too hard to talk out loud, so she prayed inside.

  Please let my sins be forgiven too. I love You, Jesus, now that I finally know You. I’ll keep this Bible safe. And the guy who had it before me—if he was free, he would never black-market his Bible. So if he’s handcuffed to a table somewhere, be with him, please.

  Slowly, the tears dried. Violet breathed the stuffy car air, in and out, and lifted her head. Nothing left to pay. To be forgiven? No. But to make things right with the people she’d wronged, the best she possibly could … she had to do something.

  “Jesus, if You would, please be with me.” She turned the key and pulled onto the empty road, back toward the highway. “I’m scared to death.”

  39

  “So Clay Hansen comes to us.” The shoulder seams of the man’s blue suit jacket strained as he stuck his hand across the table to Clay. “Agent Lopez. I’ll be conducting the interview.”

  Clay sat back in his chair and blinked. Surely the man didn’t expect a handshake. After a moment, Agent Lopez settled into his own chair and nodded to the voice recorder that sat between them, winking its red light.

  “Obviously, this has to be recorded, but I’m hoping we can keep things on some level of civility.”

  Sure, why not.

  They hadn’t even handcuffed him, just checked him for weapons and escorted him to this room, white walls on three sides and a broad, dim window on the fourth, beside the door. No way to tell how many people watched him from the other side of that window. All he saw was his own reflection. He breathed in deep, let his body loosen. They’d honor the deal, or they wouldn’t.

  “You mentioned you had something to offer us,” Agent Lopez said.

  “This resistance movement you’re all panicking about.”

  “The Constabulary doesn’t make a habit of panicking.”

  Of course not. “I know their leader.”

  In the moment before the professional mask settled, Lopez’s eyes flickered. Impressed. Curious. Hungry for this morsel of information. No, not a morsel. Clay was offering him the whole meal, and they each knew the other one knew it. Lopez’s hand made it halfway up from his side before he lowered it again, preventing some giveaway gesture. He cleared his throat.

  “You have the leader’s name?”

  “I know the leader. Personally.”

  Lopez waited, nodded, and sighed when Clay didn’t break the silence. “Please do tell.”

  This guy must think Clay was stupid. Well, maybe only stupid people approached the Constabulary for a deal. Numbness crept into his hands. What am I doing? He battled his lips into a firm smile.

  “First, I get to see my daughter. Then you release her, permanently, clean record. You stop looking for Violet, clean record for her, too. Then I give you the name, and then you release me.”

  “And Natalia?”

  Her name speared him straight through. The guy had to see it. Roll with it, bounce back, smile. “She’s not here, in case you missed that. She’s not a Christian. She hasn’t done anything illegal.”

  “She fled a crime scene.”

  “There wasn’t any crime at the reception. Those agents didn’t have anything on us, they just wanted to talk, and we didn’t feel like talking.”

  “We? Did you ask your wife if she wanted to talk to them, or did you intimidate her into coming with you?”

  Clay shoved his chair back but stayed seated. He inhaled the clean cotton scent of the air freshener. Come on, get control. See the humor. He’d bet his bike he’d never intimidated a soul in thirty-nine years.

  “But if you’re not concerned about Natalia, then I’m not either, for now. About Khloe, though. You won’t be seeing her today. She’s in a group home about half an hour from here.”

  “Looks like an impasse to me.”

  Agent Lopez stood, leaned over the table. “Except you’re the criminal, Mr. Hansen, and I’m law enforcement.”

  On the wall, hung between the door and the mirror-window, a red phone rang twice. Lopez hastened to it, listened for about fifteen seconds, and then hung up.

  He turned back and shrugged. “You’ve got a deal. My boss will release you and your daughter.”

  “And Violet?”

  “How we deal with her will depend on Violet.”

  What did that mean?

  “But before anything else happens, I need that name.”

  “No way.”

  “Mr. Hansen.” Lopez sat across from Clay and spread his hands flat on the table. “You’re not getting a reunion or a release or anything else without that name.”

  Even Clay’s arms had gone numb now, as if the blood were receding from his limbs and damming up in his torso, weighting him to the chair.

  “So.” Lopez folded his arms.

  “How do I know you’ll honor the deal?”

  “You don’t, but we will.”

  In the last week, Clay hadn’t ever controlled a single thing. He’d simply been funneled by fate toward the moment he gave the Constabulary what they wanted and lost his freedom in return.

&nbs
p; I tried, Nat.

  “All right.” Clay balled his fists in his lap. Never let them see you shake. He shifted in the chair, and it suddenly felt harder. If they could prove Marcus’s role in the resistance, the man wouldn’t go to re-education. He’d be imprisoned for the rest of his life.

  “You’re doing the right thing for your family, Mr. Hansen.”

  If they kept their word, that was more than Marcus had done for him. More than even God had done.

  “All right.”

  “The name?”

  “Marcus Brenner.”

  Lopez’s eyes darted to the window.

  The door sprang open. Another agent charged in, lean and no taller than five-foot-nine, probably shorter. His coarse, sandy hair was mussed on top. Lopez shut the door behind him and stood against it. New point man in the interrogation. This must be the boss.

  The new guy’s eyes, blue and hard, drilled into Clay. “Did Brenner put you up to this?”

  Whoa. What? “Uh, no, of course not.”

  The man approached the table but didn’t sit. He leaned toward Clay, pushing into his personal space with the scent of cinnamon gum.

  “You just said you know him personally.”

  “And it follows that he told me to turn him in?” Clay leaned back in his chair.

  Satisfaction flickered in the man’s eyes. He straightened but didn’t step back. “Agent Mayweather. Mr. Hansen, if Marcus Brenner were leading a resistance movement, why would he tell you about it?”

  “He trusts me.”

  “Why?”

  The Constabulary wasn’t supposed to challenge his story. He folded his arms against the chill in the room, or maybe against the chill inside him. Yeah, Marcus, why would you trust me? Look at me now.

  Agent Mayweather rounded the table and perched on the edge of it, a foot from Clay. Back off, why don’t you. But Clay wouldn’t retreat again. This guy could touch noses if he wanted to, as long as he believed Clay, as long as he honored the deal.

  Apparently, Mayweather wasn’t going to shoot further questions until this one got answered. “I guess because I’m … well, family.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  Impossible that this guy could know that. Unless … maybe they had a whole file on him, on Natalia and Khloe. They could have researched his whole family tree.

  He shrugged anyway. “Suppose we’re cousins?”

  “Brenner doesn’t have family, hasn’t since his mother’s death thirteen years ago. And when you lie to me about one thing, I assume you’re lying about everything else, including whether he put you up to this. Not the way to reunite your family, let me tell you.”

  They didn’t have a file on Clay. They had one on Marcus. And Agent Mayweather knew that file so well he could spit out biographical details without checking his notes.

  “We’re not blood relatives, but the last church you busted—that was his church too. He called us his family. All of us.”

  “Really. So he’s the sentimental type.”

  “No, just …” How to explain the guy? Clay shrugged. “Loyal, I guess.”

  “Loyal enough to divert us with a ploy that he’s the leader?”

  “I sincerely don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Mayweather studied him another long moment. “Lee Vaughn.”

  He shook his head. “Never met him.”

  A slow nod, a twitch of the mouth, as if Clay had said something amusing—but Mayweather seemed to believe him. “Well, Mr. Hansen, you’re going to call Brenner and arrange a meeting. Give him a reason you have to see him, today. He can pick the time and place; you just sell the emergency.”

  Sure, easy. As long as Marcus picked up the phone. As long as he wasn’t “detoured.”

  If only Clay could think of Marcus as a bargaining chip instead of a person. Instead he’d carry this conversation for the rest of his life, a tiny, putrid seed to fester in his gut along with every other rotten day that he couldn’t spit out and leave behind. The drive in the snowstorm while his daughter lay small and sick in the hospital. The pieces of Natalia he’d trampled without knowing it. The salt of his tears as he stood outside his sister’s hospital room, not trusted or worthy or something, not allowed in. “Wait outside, Clayton. I said go. Don’t be here right now.”

  He swallowed this new day, and it wasn’t as bitter as he expected. In a way, Marcus had earned this. Clay settled his hands on the chair’s smooth armrests. “When do I call him?”

  “We’re ready now.”

  40

  No way Clay could pull this off. He clenched his hands between his knees and leaned forward on the weathered wooden bench. Bikers, runners, and power-walkers passed him, then rounded the curve of the walking path, out of sight behind a fringe of trees. Marcus had described this bench and the flower garden across the path as if he’d been here hundreds of times. “I’ll come to you.” Sure, and the moment they made eye contact, the guy would read everything in Clay’s face, in the fidgeting of his hands and feet. Sit still. Calm down.

  One thing Marcus wouldn’t see was a wire. Agent Lopez had suggested one, but when Clay refused—no telling what would happen to the deal if Marcus mentioned Clay’s stint as Toddler Transporter—Agent Mayweather shrugged, and no one brought it up again.

  No one had informed him what would happen after he shook Marcus’s hand. As far as he knew, the Constabulary team was limited to Mayweather, Lopez, and an Agent Tisdale, whose version of street clothes included camouflage fatigue pants. He was built like a bouncer. All three agents probably hid in the shrubs somewhere, ready to handcuff Marcus the moment Clay identified him.

  Which didn’t make any sense. Mayweather had far too much information on Marcus to be missing a physical description. Or a home address.

  Clay stood and stretched his arms, paced the grass. No one had come by in a while. Where …? There. Marcus jogged down the track toward him.

  He slowed as he neared Clay. Sweat darkened his red T-shirt. The shorts weren’t exactly workout shorts, but they were a lightweight khaki with minimal pockets. Marcus had already planned to be here and simply tacked a meeting with Clay onto his scheduled run. A fact that wouldn’t faze Clay under normal, low-stress circumstances. Right now it felt like an insult. Really illogical considering what Clay was here to do.

  “You’re going to have a heatstroke.” The idiotic words popped out of his mouth as soon as Marcus entered hearing range.

  Marcus jogged in place for a minute, then joined him on the bench. “Weather like this, you just slow down a little.”

  In weather like this, you could overheat standing under a tree. Focus. Clay’s neck shivered, but he didn’t turn to look. Where were they? Why didn’t they just step into the open and read the man his Miranda rights?

  “So,” Marcus said. “What’s going on?”

  Persuade him to show up. That was the sum of Clay’s role. A cover story had never entered his head. But he did have something to say. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Marcus rubbed his neck. “What?”

  “When they, when you—” He pressed his fists against his knees. For one scorching second, he wanted this man in prison. “However it happened, I should’ve known about it. Right away.”

  “Clay. What’re you talking about?”

  So this was his choice, to play stupid. No. “Khloe. However they got to Khloe.”

  However you failed her.

  “I couldn’t call you before. Things happened. But Khloe’s okay. I just saw her yesterday.”

  “Where is she, then?”

  Marcus sighed. “You know where she is.”

  “I sure do. She’s been in a state foster home since Tuesday, and you didn’t think this was something her father should know.”

  “No.”

  “They informed me. Officially. My daugh
ter’s in custody, after you—”

  “Clay. She’s not. They’re lying, to— I don’t know what they’re trying to do, but she’s safe.” His voice lowered, although no one had passed in the last few minutes. Had the agents cordoned off the path? A hundred yards away, even the swing set and the old merry-go-round were empty. “You know where she is. You’ve been there. But I need you to stay away for another few days.”

  Clay scrubbed at his hair, shifted on the bench that still dug into his back. “The agent showed me proof. Just admit it, Marcus, admit they have her.”

  “You’ve got to trust me.” Marcus dug knuckles into his neck.

  He’d tried that once. And if he defected on this mission … jail was a given. Khloe might be in custody, or she might not be, but either way, he couldn’t get to her without buying his own freedom.

  “I tell you the truth: it is the will of God that you should save your life, not lose it.” Jesus hadn’t said that. Well, probably hadn’t. But for today, it applied. And even if this wasn’t God’s will … this was Clay’s.

  He held out his hand. “I trust you.”

  Marcus’s eyebrows rose, probably at the formality. Then he reached across the bench and clasped Clay’s hand. The half smile and the warmth in his eyes sent ice all the way up Clay’s arm. He’s a bargaining chip. No. He was a man. A loyal man.

  “Freeze!” Lopez and Tisdale appeared around the blacktop curve behind Marcus, hands on their sidearms.

  Marcus’s grip loosened. Shock blanked his face, and his breath caught. As Clay withdrew his hand, Marcus stood and stepped back from the bench. He was going to run.

  “Hands up! Get down on the ground!”

  Marcus turned and faced them. Measured them.

  Lopez drew his weapon and leveled it inches from Marcus’s chest. “I said, on the ground.”

  Marcus blurred. Flashed to the side, clear of the gun, and threw an elbow that knocked a grunt from Lopez. That gun would go off. Or Lopez would intentionally shoot him. Marcus, don’t be an imbecile. You’ve lost. Go quietly.

  Marcus’s fist smashed into Lopez’s face. The gun dropped into the grass.