Sovereign Ground (Breaking Bonds)

by Hilarey Johnson

  “I’ll get it for ya.”

  “We’ll come back in the morning,” he promises.

  “Sure, sweetie.” But you can tell she doesn’t really care, sometimes people surprise me with kindness.

  I give Hayden his sweatshirt and tuck the kitty into my pocket while Hayden packs the milk, bottle and crackers into my backpack.

  “What should I name it?”

  “Hold off on that.”

  Hayden really doesn’t believe my kitten will live. What was that saying Leah’s mom told me? Something about God knows when a sparrow falls to the ground. I guess we’ll see.

  We head back to the hotel, still holding hands. Only, just as the row of rundown, motel rooms come into view—Hayden halts. By the time my eyes focus on the white van, he’s pulling us into the shadows.

  Chapter 24

  Brita’s killer makes a show of closing our motel room door. He looks casual, like it’s his door, and he is just securing it. He walks to the shiny Chevy van and climbs into the driver’s side.

  “Nevada plates,” Hayden whispers.

  The van’s taillights illuminate the parking lot and surrounding bushes. We aren’t hidden enough, and both of us stumble back, scrambling for the other side of the building. I clench his hand with moist fingers, and when we arrive at the backside of the closed restaurant, I collapse to my knees behind a bush. Hayden squats. The intermittent hum of the freeway resonates behind us. A breeze blows litter against a chain link fence.

  “Why would he follow us?”

  Hayden just shakes his head, his eyebrows vaulted in question. “He broke into our room.”

  Why would he chase me a couple hundred miles? How did he find me? What does he want with me?

  “I’ll see if he’s gone.”

  There is no way I’m staying alone. I follow three or four steps behind him, but I don’t leave the backside of the building. I just poke my head around, so I can keep Hayden in view.

  “The van’s gone,” Hayden says, but he doesn’t step into the circle of light made by the street lamp. I step closer to him, so I can see the front side of the motel.

  He crosses his arms and scans the road, the buildings, and deserted restaurants. Occasionally a small car passes.

  “Hayden, I don’t want to stay here.”

  “We aren’t going to.”

  “What are we waiting for?”

  “I’m just going to go back in and get the rest of our stuff—” The light inside our room turns off. Someone’s inside.

  We look at each other for a second, and I turn to run back to the bushes. Hayden grabs my wrist and leads me. When we get to the back, he yanks me down and I allow him to push me back into hiding.

  “I’m going to get the bike and ride back toward that McDonald’s. When I’m sure no one is following me, I’ll meet you up that way.” He points along the chain link fence. “Follow the fence. Stay out of the light, get to the Mexican restaurant—”

  “I can’t.”

  “Sparrow, listen to me.”

  “No. Don’t leave me.” He smoothes back my hair and starts to collect it.

  “Push this into your sweatshirt.” I unzip my fleece and tuck in my hair. He pulls my hood up and places a hand on each temple. “Father, give Sparrow the courage she needs. Protect her. Lead her.”

  I can’t believe he is leaving me again.

  “I would take you over there, but I’m afraid the van will come back.” He stands. “Take this.” Hard metal fills my hands. I lift my hands to see his gun. He redirects the muzzle at the ground behind us. “Put your finger here.”

  “I know where the trigger is.”

  He places a hand on the top and lowers the muzzle toward the ground again. “Well, don’t pull it unless you want to kill. But if you do—don’t hesitate.”

  I try to get a better look.

  “Keep the muzzle down.” He pushes the palm of his hand on top of it. “There’s fourteen rounds of nine millimeter in there.”

  I’m sure that’s impressive.

  He moves his face into my line of sight, “If you know what you are shooting at, empty the clip. Pull the trigger until it stops shooting.”

  “Meet you at the Mexican restaurant?” I’m less afraid to be alone with a gun. If I even see Brita’s murderer—”

  “Don’t panic if it takes me a few minutes.” He starts to leave then turns. “If I don’t come in an hour, call 911.”

  “911? The cops are in on it.”

  “Not all of them,” he says.

  “How do I know who to trust?”

  “Trust God.”

  “Seriously, Hayden? While you are riding around on a motorcycle and I’m alone on foot?”

  “I don’t want these guys to see you.”

  “How do you know they’ll follow you? What if they follow me?”

  “Stay out of sight. Then call Malcolm.”

  Why is he doing this?

  “Malcolm Graves, Reno P.D.,” he clarifies.

  “I’ll have to go ‘in sight’ to find a phone.”

  “Well, do it before dawn, at a gas station or something.”

  “How will I get his number?”

  “Call information, then call collect. Or call 911 and ask them to transfer you to his cell.”

  Ugh. He acts like it’s so simple. “How do you know he’ll believe me?”

  The fingers on both of Hayden’s hands stretch taut and then clench into fists only to explode open again. Hayden runs his hands through his hair, from his temples backward. In the space of a deep breath—a car door slams. Stifled arguing filters from the front of the building. The distinct phrase, “They have to be close,” sounds in an agitated grumble.

  Hayden and I link hands and run.

  The freeway is on our left, separated from us by the chain link fence and bushes. On our right, we pass apartment fire escapes, restaurants, motels and the back doors of businesses. We weave, leap and duck around everything from barbeques to shoes. Just when I think my lungs will explode, my ears start ringing. All sounds disappear and I feel a surreal tingling.

  I’m coming for you. Baby, you can’t hide.

  My curse is with me still. Now it speaks inside my heart and mind. I flinch and accidently squeeze my right hand.

  Bang. The gun jerks from my fingers. Hayden’s hands hit me, and I know I’m going to hit the ground. I twist to keep the kitten from landing under me. Pain stabs my rib, and Hayden becomes a dome over me. I feel for the kitten. He’s not smashed.

  “It was me.”

  He tries to cover my mouth to shush me.

  “Hayden. I did it.”

  His weight shifts as he tries to view the area around us.

  “I shot the gun.” I roll away from him and cradle my rib. A cantaloupe-sized rock protrudes from the ground. “My ribs hurt sooo baaad.”

  The gun landed just beyond my fingers. Piercing pain increases when I scoot to retrieve it, which now holds thirteen rounds of nine millimeter. The weapon is warm. I hand it back to him. Apparently he doesn’t like the way I hand it because he freaks a little—moving the muzzle and gripping the gun solidly with both hands. He collapses against the wall and rests the gun against his thigh, his first finger rigid over the loop that holds the trigger. He inhales deeply, holds—and then exhales a shaky, vibrating breath.

  Meow. Kitten tells us he is alive.

  “Girl, you frustrate me.”

  I start to laugh, but it hurts my right side too much. “Then don’t ever threaten to leave me alone again.” I try to breathe shallow because deep breaths hurt.

  “Someone is going to report the shot fired. Let’s move.”

  “I think you broke my rib.” He tries to help me stand, but it hurts more with his help. I suppress a groan. Thankfully, he leads slower now. I want to ask him where he thinks we’re going, but I keep envisioning the scene. I see it like I’m floating above two strangers. Hayden thought someone was shooting at us and his first reaction was to protect me. In his mi
nd—he rolled on top of me to die.

  Hayden turns right, and we emerge into a lighter section of town. Casino lights guarantee exceptional odds and loose slots.

  Hayden’s gaze roams the street. “We could hide in a public place. Casinos are open all night.”

  “And go to Humboldt in the morning?”

  He works his tongue around his mouth like he is looking for something. After a minute he mumbles, “It would be nice to take a look at your CD. Maybe find out if they are after that—or you.”

  That hadn’t occurred to me. The pirate guy might be after the CD. This doesn’t change the fact that Clint, and something worse, is after me. I glance around behind us. It doesn’t matter if I see Clint anymore. The voice I heard in my head belonged to him.

  Really—was my curse, was Clint—ever bound by my perception? Both seem to find me no matter what I do. Even now, he is near.

  “Hayden, something else is going on here. I need to get to my grandfather.”

  “You’re hiding something?”

  “No.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Nothing.”

  He cuts across the parking lot and walks away from the casinos, away from where we came. “Hayden?”

  He won’t believe me.

  Cori believed me.

  Then she tried to kill me.

  “Hayden.” He doesn’t turn or slow. I run after him. “Where are you going?”

  “We need to get away from the street lights.” Hayden keeps looking from side to side. He is more alert, more agitated than normal cop-mode. He leads us down a residential street.

  I’ll follow him, this man who rolled on top of me to die, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to know where we are going. “Stop.”

  He does.

  “What’s the plan?” I ask. He grabs me and pulls us both into the concealment of an overgrown bush.

  “I’m going to steal a car.”

  Chapter 25

  Malcolm was right, I’m no good for Hayden. He gave up a friend’s advice and probably his job. If he steals a car he’ll forfeit his future. But if I’m going to analyze it—I already know how far he is willing to go. Hayden would give me his life.

  And I’ll take that life.

  I crouch. The curse is only in my head.

  “What’s wrong?” Hayden lifts me to standing, and I ignore the pain in my rib. Does he need to know that Clint is following me? Can he tell we are not alone? Hayden trembles, at some point he pulled out his gun. He does know, somehow.

  Something clanks at the house nearest us and we both look. A porch light flicks on and we press deeper into the bush. Tiny strips of light shine through the leaves. A spider web strand glows iridescent. I feel more spider threads on my face but I’m afraid to wipe them away. Highlighted by the illumination, tiny hairs stand at salute along Hayden’s neck. He is golden light, even here, hiding in the dark.

  Yes, steal a car. It’s our only hope.

  I know not to trust that thought. Everything is spiraling out of control. Just us humans, flailing around in the muck while all the spirits laugh at us. I hate our helplessness. “If only we had some way to know what we’re supposed to do.”

  Hayden ejects a moan-sigh. “You’re right.”

  “What?”

  “I have been going about this all wrong.” He laughs a little. “Praise God.”

  Praise? Hayden grabs my hand and we leave the bushes. Isn’t he afraid of the night? Won’t someone see us? No, he doesn’t seem to care. We stroll down the middle of the street like it’s everybody’s business, like we’ve nothing to fear.

  “I’m sorry, God. I’m like Abraham, forcing your promise with Hagar. Just like before, in Spain. Not again, God. Lord, you are good. Lord, you are gooood tooo me.”

  He’s singing now? What the heck?

  He holds one hand up and with the other, he clutches mine. What a fool.

  I don’t want to say I feel surrounded by peace, but there is something. I think it’s the absence of evil. That’s what it is: my curse is gone.

  Hayden’s wonderful foolishness lifts me to hope. Hayden will rescue us. He will save me. He rolled on top of me to die.

  He leads us away from the residential area. We walk away from stealing a car—and toward the casinos…the lights, the van, Brita’s killer.

  “Sparrow, I’m sorry for panicking.” He squeezes my hand. “I don’t know what came over me. God will take care of us. He’ll provide the way.”

  “So we’re just gonna start walking?”

  “Yeah, but we’ll be smart. Stay to side streets, get to the freeway.”

  “Are we going to hitchhike?”

  “No.” He pauses. “I don’t think so. God will provide.”

  Does he hear voices too? How can he tell which ones to follow?

  We turn before we get to the main street. We keep walking and walking. It only hurts if I breathe deep or twist. I try to keep my rib rigid. We’ve passed the lit part of town, and walk down a road that is becoming more and more deserted. Hayden tries to hide a yawn. At least I slept.

  I squeeze his hand. “Can we stop?”

  “Are you okay?”

  “No. My ribs hurt.” Which is true. But hopefully after a break, he will reconsider walking to the freeway, based on some instruction he may or may not have heard from voices in his head. At least with stealing a car we would be in control of how we get to Humboldt. Maybe I should have let him run off and get the motorcycle.

  “Let’s rest at that gas station.”

  “Thanks.”

  A buzzer echoes in a back room when Hayden and I walk through the gas station doorway.

  “Can I help you?” An overweight woman sits behind the counter. She is a younger, angry version of Raenah. Is she a bloodhound, able to sniff out our empty pockets and forgotten wallets?

  “Restrooms?” Hayden says.

  “Restrooms are for customers.”

  We must look horrible. I turn to Hayden. He’s a little windblown, wrinkled clothes, tired looking. But he doesn’t look like a vagrant. Is it me and my curse? Hayden looks to the door.

  “I’m buying them both a cup of coffee.” A muscled, square, hairy man steps from the candy bar aisle and points to us. From the top of his green John Deer cap, to the bottom of his frayed Carhartts, he looks like someone who could wrestle a bull. Large beefy hands hold chips, soda and meat sticks. His shoes are clumped with mud and tufts of grass. It’s not even raining.

  I don’t blame the gas attendant for not arguing. I take the key for the restroom, attached to a florescent baton, and walk alone in the direction of the restroom sign.

  When I’m finished and return the key, the attendant repays me with an awkward smile. Ah, patron status now. It’s okay. I return the smile and look around for Hayden.

  “They’re outside.” She points.

  “So there I was—” The big guy points to an imaginary scene with his beef stick. “Pulling a jacked-up, half-ton, extended-cab truck out of the mud with my cruiser…” He slaps Hayden on the shoulder and Hayden’s laugh matches his in animation and sincerity. “Poor kid didn’t even know what four-wheel drive meant.”

  They turn at my approach.

  “Matty.” Hayden puts his hand out. “I can’t thank you enough for the coffee.” He hands a cup to me.

  “My pleasure.” Matty gnaws on his jerky and keeps talking. “I had such a profitable night, I told God, ‘You blessed me—bring someone for me to bless,’ and then you two were standing there like a couple of stray kittens.”

  My hand moves to my pocket. This is no happenstance. Hayden doesn’t seem as affected as me, he just holds up his cup in salute. “Well, thanks.”

  “You kids need a ride?”

  “Yeah, but we’re headed to Salt Creek, up 93.”

  “I’m going as far as Wells.”

  “Really?” Hayden turns to me with expectant eyes. He seems to say, ‘Wha’d I tell ya?’

  Matty looks a
t me. “That is if you don’t mind sharing a cab with me an’ Miss Priss.”

  The coffee cup burns my hands. “Miss Priss?”

  He points to a red, white and blue tow-truck. The winch is as rusty and mud splattered as the rest of it. “Priss is my pit bull.”

  We follow Matty and when he opens the passenger door for us, a pale pink and white dog—no not dog, more like a skin-covered-hunk-of-muscle—noses at him. The pickup dome light casts an eerie hue on her pale color, making it look strangely translucent. The dog is squat and hard, like her owner. She’s as friendly as him too, but fortunately only licking him all over his face.

  “She won’t let you in unless she can greet you properly.”

  Hayden sticks his hand out, and she smells him and then tastes him as thoroughly as she did to Matty. Hayden passes. Priss looks at me. I hold my hand out but she’ll have none of that, she goes right for my pocket. Diving and nudging, I try to push her away, but I’m not strong enough.

  “Whoa, girl.” Matty pulls Priss back by her collar. “All right, hop in the back, Priss.” She leaps over and sits on the rear section of the extended cab.

  I start to climb in, but Hayden puts a hand in front of me. As Matty walks around the front, Hayden whispers, “Let me get in first.”

  It’s a protective gesture. Even though he trusts this stranger enough to take the ride, he still thinks of ways to be cautious, to care for me. As tired as he is, he won’t sleep.

  “We’ll be in Wells by dawn.” Matty starts his truck and turns on his headlights. Hayden sits close, pressing me against the door. He starts drumming his thumb and pinky alternately against his thigh.

  Matty glances over. “Where’d you say you were headed?”

  “Salt Creek,” Hayden answers.

  I lean forward to look around Hayden. “Then to see my grandfather at the Shoshone-Humboldt Indian Colony.”

  “I’ve been out there. Nice place. So, you kids in trouble?”

  “Naw.” Hayden answers and increases the tempo of his tapping.

  “Cause, I was gonna offer to pray with ya.”

  “I won’t turn that down.” Hayden presses his hand against his leg. It shakes under the restraint, so I slip my fingers into his.