Dead Secret

by Ava McCarthy

  ‘They’re just waving a lot of people through,’ he said. ‘With this mob, maybe they won’t check you out too closely.’

  Jodie stood on tippy-toe. Novak was right. Most passengers were just attracting a cursory glance: a flick through the passport; a signal to proceed. She pushed forward with the crowd. Behind her, someone shouted, ‘Hey, quit shoving!’ In a few minutes, it’d be Jodie’s turn.

  Up ahead, one of the security guards spun away as though summoned. He peeled off from the queue, strode up to one of the cubicles. The passenger at the desk had a stricken look, and the guard led him away by the elbow, hand hovering over his holstered weapon. Jodie’s stomach plunged.

  She inched forward to the head of the queue, and leaned in to Novak.

  ‘You go first. It’s me they’re looking for, not you.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘And when it’s my turn, you’ve got to create some kind of diversion.’

  ‘What? How?’

  ‘I don’t know. Use the crowds. It’s all we have.’

  Novak opened his mouth to argue, but a testy security guard was motioning him on to the next vacant cubicle. Novak edged away, glancing back over his shoulder. Jodie nodded, and waited her turn at the red line. Her skin felt clammy.

  Novak reached the cubicle. The immigration officer flicked him a brief glance, checked his passport, waved him through. Novak sidestepped towards the throng on the other side, his eyes pinned to Jodie’s.

  The officer beckoned her forward. She hesitated. Made herself move. Stepping up to the cubicle, she handed over her passport. Up close, the immigration officer looked strained and tired. He sighed, and riffled through the pages of her passport, tapped at his keyboard. Then he frowned. Glanced up. Checked back to his screen.

  Jodie’s adrenaline surged. She shot Novak a look. His eyes widened. Then he broke into a run, jabbed the air with his finger in the direction of the red line and yelled,

  ‘Gun! Gun! Man has a gun a gun a gun a gun!’

  For an instant, the world froze. Then a scream ripped through the silence, then another, then more. The officer in Jodie’s cubicle leapt to his feet and Novak kept on yelling.

  ‘Gun gun gun gun!’

  The queues churned and erupted. Guards drew their weapons, eyes darting, uncertain of their target. Jodie edged away. The immigration officer snapped his gaze to her face. Then the crowds boiled over, heaving en masse across the red line. Novak was still yelling over the screams.

  ‘Gun gun gun gun!’

  Passengers surged towards the checkpoints, bearing down on Jodie. Guards hustled to block them, yelling over the din.

  ‘Back! Step back, sir! Back, everybody back!’

  The guards stemmed some of the torrent, but a wave of passengers spilled around them, flooding towards Jodie. The officer in her cubicle narrowed his eyes, shot a look at his screen. Reached for his phone. But the deluge had already poured around her, and was sweeping her along like a tide. She half-toppled in the crush, got squeezed as more guards barricaded the way past the checkpoints.

  But the panic was contagious. Passengers already cleared for entry had started a stampede of their own, and there weren’t enough guards to go around. Jodie scrambled through a gap with the panicky mob, half-carried, half-dragged, her stab wound biting into her gut. Someone grabbed her arm.

  ‘This way!’

  Novak hauled her through the tightly packed bodies. An alarm wailed overhead, just another shriek in the chaos. They shoved against the crowds, ploughing through to customs. Everywhere, security guards yelled into radios, weapons raised, faces creased with indecision. One of them turned his gaze on Jodie, stared at her hard. He spoke into his radio, rapid-fire, then levelled his gun at her face.

  ‘Freeze!’

  Jodie went still. People bumped her as they charged past. The guard was close, maybe ten yards away. She couldn’t see Novak. The guard’s eyes slid left and right, and she could almost see his brain working, weighing up the wisdom of shooting into a crowd. The guard shifted his stance, ran a tongue over his lips. Then a frenzy of passengers body-slammed into him, knocking him off balance.

  His gun skittered to the floor, spinning away from him, and instinctively, Jodie lunged. She scrabbled on her hands and knees, ignored the trampling crowd, stretched her fingers, reached the gun. She grabbed it and leapt back to her feet, shoving the weapon down the back of her waistband, underneath her jacket.

  The guard was yelling into his radio. Jodie’s heartbeat hammered.

  Move!

  She bolted through the crowds, barging out of customs and into the main concourse.

  Where the hell was Novak?

  She raced towards the exit, feet slapping hard against the tiles, blood drumming through her electrified limbs. Finally, she spotted him, pacing near the doors, his expression panicked.

  When he saw her, he yelled, ‘Jesus!’ and grabbed her hand, and together they burst through the airport exit and out into the biting snow.

  The taxi swished through the slush at breakneck speed, the cabbie on a promise of extra cash for making the long trip and in double-quick time.

  Jodie twisted in her seat, peered behind at the squall of snowflakes that gusted like smoke in the dark. Her limbs felt rigid, every nerve in her body on heightened awareness. Beside her, Novak’s grip on the hanging strap was white-knuckle tight.

  They’d already switched cabs a couple of times, first in Salem, then again in Eugene, each time making the trek worth the driver’s while. They’d opted for back routes wherever they were passable: dark, deserted roads, bordered by looming redwoods and firs that guarded a vast stretch of backcountry. It would help to cover their tracks. For a while, at least.

  Jodie hugged her chest, fingers digging hard into her arms. Adrenaline still blazed a trail through her veins. She flashed on the gun she’d snatched at the airport, now safely hidden from Novak inside her bag. If she ever found Ethan, at least she’d be ready for him.

  She shot a glance at Novak, at the tiny muscle that pulsed near his temple. He looked as if his heartbeat was pounding as hard as hers. They locked eyes for a moment. His gaze was full of fire and speculation, and it sent a ripple of heat along her frame.

  The cab scrunched to a halt and Jodie refocused, squinting out through the dizzy whirlwind of snow. A neon sign sputtered in the dark: Riverside Inn, Grants Pass. She couldn’t see any river. Just a U-shaped motel on the side of the road, backing onto dense forest.

  Jodie paid the fare, plus bonus on top, then clambered out of the cab. Blistering cold bit into her cheeks, and she scurried, head down, towards the motel office. Behind her, Novak’s feet crackled over hard-packed snow.

  They paid upfront for the room, a seventies throwback furnished in brown and avocado. Novak closed the door behind them, dropped his bag to the floor. He held her gaze, his face filled with a mute hunger. Her skin tingled. Then he reached out and lifted the bag from her shoulder. Set it down next to his. Moved closer.

  She felt suddenly breathless, all the fear transformed into an explosion of longing. He leaned into the kiss, his mouth hard, urgent, hands pulling her close. She moved into him, pressed herself against him, felt his heartbeat thudding, clashing against hers. A craving for him consumed every cell in her body.

  They fumbled with each other’s clothes, fetching up on the bed where they clung together. The first touch of skin against skin was electric. A low moan escaped Novak’s throat.

  He moved over her, and the world became nothing except heat at her core, a spilling of need and vulnerability, every secret touch tender, even in its urgency, until finally the heat exploded in an intoxicating rush, over and over, smashing through fear and hate and pain until there was nothing left but her trembling body fused together with his. With their limbs still entwined, intimate and trusting, she fell into a deep sleep.

  23

  The room was dark when Jodie woke up.

  Her head was pillowed against Novak’s chest, her body bat
hed in warmth. She floated for a while, sedated, almost. Something pricked at her brain, but she couldn’t catch hold of it. Didn’t want to.

  Half-asleep, she raised her head and glanced at Novak. His rumpled hair looked tough and vigorous, but his face was calm, the dogged intensity under wraps while he slept. Crinkles fanned out around his eyes, the kind people got when they usually smiled a lot.

  Something quickened in Jodie’s chest: the same sensation she’d get when choosing what to paint; the same fluttering that used to tell her she’d found something worthwhile.

  Still drowsy, she lay back on the cushion of his chest. Her consciousness gave another jab, and a formless dread seeped over her. Then cold knowledge slammed into place, an avalanche of recall. Crushing her, pounding her.

  Abby is dead.

  Her brain shut down, buried in a silent, visceral scream.

  no no no no no no no

  Her intestines churned, rejecting reality, processing the unthinkable all over again.

  My Abby is gone. My Abby, my Abby …

  Soft, round face, dark curls; sturdy little frame, always dressed in the favoured dungarees, the ones with the pink rabbit on the bib.

  Or was it blue?

  Jodie squeezed her eyes shut.

  Why can’t I remember!

  Novak stirred in his sleep. She lifted her head to look at him again. Last night, she’d chosen to obliterate pain, to block it out for a while. Had she betrayed Abby? It felt disloyal not to hurt, disloyal to forget even for a moment that Abby was gone.

  Jodie eased herself gently away from Novak, slipped out from the warm lair of the bed. He grunted, then rolled over like a slumbering bear. Satisfied he was still asleep, she padded towards the bathroom, pausing to pick up Novak’s bag along the way.

  She closed the door behind her. Snagging a towel from the rail, she wrapped it around herself for warmth. Then she perched on the cold edge of the bath and rummaged in Novak’s bag until she’d pulled out Ethan’s dossier.

  The envelope of photos was still tucked in the back. Jodie plucked it out, opened the flap. Her hands were steady, no hesitation. The pain would be annihilating. But grief allowed her to stay close to Abby. She could never give that up.

  She slipped out the photos. The first few were shots of Jodie herself, walking through Peterborough, browsing through shops. She flicked on through them till she found a photo of Abby.

  Jodie drank in the sight of her. She was standing beside a picnic bench, feet planted wide apart, arms spread out, palms upwards. Daubs of paint matted her hair, smeared her cheeks, and her hands were coated Smurf-blue from fingertip to wrist.

  ‘Look what I can do, Mommy!’

  The memory ripped through her: Abby setting a jumbo sketch pad down on the grass, then standing over it, squirting paint straight out from the tubes. Blobs, splats, snaking lines. A giant splash of primary colours.

  ‘Don’t forget your sandwich, Abby.’

  ‘Look, Mommy, I can smush it round with my hands!’

  Abby on her hunkers, kneading the paint; then marching solemnly around the pad, not sploshing the paint on any old place, but thoughtfully deciding what colour went where.

  ‘Careful, Abby, we can’t get paint on the bench.’

  ‘Watch this, Mommy!’

  Abby dipping her hands in a pot of blue, surveying the pad, selecting the right spot, then clapping from a height over the page, spattering out a web of speckles and strips. She’d turned to Jodie, plump arms spread out in triumph.

  ‘Finished, Mommy. Look!’

  Jodie touched a fingertip to the little girl’s image, tracing around the dark curly hair, the curve of her cheek, the dungarees with the rabbit motif on the bib.

  Jodie peered closer, her heart congesting.

  Pink. She hadn’t forgotten. The rabbit was pink.

  She clasped the photo to her breast with both hands, shut her eyes tight. Then slowly, she slid to the ground. She rocked back and forth on the cold tiles, over and over, backwards and forwards, hugging Abby close.

  She stayed like that for a long time, unaware of Novak till he’d sat down beside her, pulling her to him, gathering her wordlessly into his arms and rocking in rhythm alongside her.

  24

  ‘I still think this is a waste of time.’

  Jodie looked up from the map, keeping her finger on the location for the Marshall Lake Treatment Facility. ‘I told you, Novak, you don’t need to come.’

  ‘We don’t even know what questions to ask when we get there.’

  ‘I’m not arguing the point.’

  ‘Or even who we’re looking for.’ Briefly, he lifted both hands from the steering wheel. ‘I mean, are we looking for someone who was a patient there, or what?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Who?’

  Jodie hesitated. She dropped her gaze back down to the map. ‘I’ve no idea.’

  But internally, she was racing through the possibilities, aware she might finally come face to face with a member of her own family. She was strangely reluctant to say that out loud.

  The car tyres crackled and popped over the grit that had been spread by the snow ploughs earlier that morning. The blizzards had abated, temporarily at least. Jodie glanced out at the deep mounds of snow, piled into drifts by last night’s wind.

  She’d painted a lot of snow scenes over the years. Normally at dusk, starting with a base of purple-grey shadow, shaping it with graded shades of white. But for a morning like this, she’d reverse the process: start with the light, add in the shadows. She eyed the towering Douglas firs packed shoulder to shoulder along the road. Frosted sentinels on the edge of wilderness, stonewalling trespassers. Jodie shuddered.

  She stole a glance at Novak, who was concentrating on the road. The desk clerk at the motel had put them in touch with a local car rental. Morley’s Motors, Cheap Dealz on Wheelz. From the dust on the dashboard and the stale smell of ash, she could see where Morley cut on costs.

  The car slewed, and Jodie tensed. Novak drove into the skid, recovering his course with nuanced corrections at the wheel. He grinned across at her.

  ‘Don’t worry, I got this.’

  ‘You’re used to driving in snow?’

  ‘Hey, I’m from New England, remember?’

  She tried to smile back, tried to relax against the seat. She glanced at his profile. Sunlight glinted off his stubble, drawing out reds that weren’t apparent in his hair. She pictured it on canvas: stippled pigment, dappled over his jawline from dark to light with a small, hard-edged brush.

  He must have felt her gaze. He turned and flashed another quick smile. His eyes were clear, a soft grey. Light paint strokes: liquid silver, cool green, layering the irises with radiating colours.

  Jodie looked away. ‘You should go back.’

  ‘To that crummy motel? We’re almost at the treatment centre.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘Hey, look, I’m just a pessimist. Maybe you’re right. Maybe we’ll find something useful here.’

  ‘I meant, go back to Boston.’

  He shot her a startled look. She fixed her eyes on the road, and pressed on.

  ‘You shouldn’t be mixed up in all of this.’

  ‘What are you talking about? It’s my story.’

  ‘Don’t you get it? You’re an accomplice now. A fugitive, just like me. Is that what you want?’

  ‘I know what I’m doing—’

  ‘It’s not too late. If you go back now, you can talk your way out of it. Say I forced you into it.’

  ‘Look, what is this, Jodie?’

  ‘It’s dangerous, can’t you see that? The police must know you’re helping me by now, and with Caruso in the mix, that means Ethan knows too.’ She felt her muscles tense. ‘If Ethan came after me, he could come after you.’

  ‘Bullshit, I can look after myself.’ His eyes switched between her and the road. ‘What’s this really about, Jodie? Is it about you and me? Because if you’re regre
tting last night—’

  ‘No!’ The response was instinctive, flew out before she knew it. She hesitated, allowing her gaze to linger on his face. Then she added gently, ‘I don’t regret it.’

  His eyes probed hers, his pupils flaring, the dove-grey irises turning smoky and intense. He glared back at the road.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  Jodie closed her eyes briefly. Was she glad or sorry? Hard to tell. Hard to know what it meant that her chest squeezed slightly, or that a seductive whisper had started up inside her head.

  You could have a second chance. Why don’t you take it?

  Jodie stared out the window. Another snowfall was starting.

  Find Ethan just to prove he’s still alive. Then you’re free.

  Hard, icy flakes ticked against the window.

  No more prison, no more killing. A second chance.

  She glanced at Novak.

  A future, even?

  She recalled how Novak’s arms had felt around her; how he’d sat with her on the floor, holding her, rocking her. Regret crushed at her insides, and she stared back out at the relentless snow. There could be no future. Not even with Novak. Her grief for Abby was an overwhelming tide. It would drown them both.

  She felt herself shut down. Groped for something to steel her resolve even more. Hating was so much easier than grieving and longing. Feed one, starve the rest. Annihilate one with the other.

  Her brain seemed to shift. She frowned, turned back to Novak.

  ‘That term people use. About Ethan.’

  ‘What term?’

  ‘Family annihilator.’

  He looked at her for a moment. ‘That’s what your attorney called him.’

  ‘I know. I want to hear more about it.’

  ‘Didn’t he go over this with you before the trial?’