Not a Sparrow Falls

by Linda Nichols

  She held out her hand, suddenly inspired. “And some money.”

  Jonah set aside the shotgun and took out his wallet. “Here.” He handed her a twenty, and the door was closing in her face before she could even reply.

  She ran after that, heart thumping in her throat. She climbed into the pickup and shifted it into neutral, praying that Dwayne was still passed out on the couch. She coasted down the hill without the lights, hoping she wouldn’t run into the gully, and didn’t shut the door and start the engine until the road leveled off and she had no choice.

  ****

  It was just after two o’clock in the morning when she pulled into the parking lot of the twenty-four-hour Wal-Mart in Charlottesville. She sat for a moment, thinking; then when her plan was made, she went inside and bought a pair of earrings, some lipstick, and a bottle of dark brown hair dye.

  She went into the bathroom and colored her hair, mopping the drips from her neck and shoulders with paper towels, ignoring the curious looks from the one salesclerk who came in to do her business and left without a word. Mary didn’t speak, just applied the dye, ignoring the pain that shot through her when she saw the corn-tassel hair becoming the color of mud. She did the best she could to dry it afterward, ducking her head to catch the air from the little wall-mounted dryer. She quit before it was fully dry, but combed it down straight onto her shoulders. It felt thick and sticky, as if she hadn’t done a good job of rinsing it. She leaned forward and examined her face, already somewhat unfamiliar.

  Adding the dangly earrings made her look even more foreign, and by the time she outlined her lips with the dark lipstick and made up her eyes, another person stared back at her from the mirror. Now she was ready. No one would recognize her like this, and with as many IDs as this fellow made for students at the college, there was no way he would remember her as a former customer. No way he would connect her with Jonah.

  She drove Dwayne’s truck toward the school and cruised slowly up and down the streets. There it was. That was the apartment building. She breathed a prayer of thanks, though she felt odd again praying about such a thing. She justified herself. Without identification she couldn’t get a job, and if she worked under her own name or one of her aliases, it would be like leaving a trail of bread crumbs leading Jonah to whatever hiding place she was able to find.

  She set the brake on the truck and made her way through the concrete maze of the apartment complex. She found the bank of mailboxes and counted on the hope that she would recognize the fellow’s name when she saw it. She’d looked through the whole first row when the thought occurred to her that he might have moved. After all, it had been two years since she’d last used his services. Her stomach tightened into a knot but then relaxed when she saw it: Eric Whitley.

  Reassured, she went back to the truck to sleep awhile. She tried, but her nerves felt as if they were strung tight. Finally she dozed off. When she woke again it was nearly eight o’clock. She made her way to Eric’s apartment at the back of the complex and rapped on the door. Nothing happened, so she rapped again, louder this time, and was rewarded by a shuffling sound and the bark of a dog.

  She cleared her throat and composed herself, trying to remember what Eric had looked like. Tall and thin, she remembered, not at all what she’d expected for a forger. He looked as though he could be one of the professors at the school, and acted like it, too. Quiet and studious, with a scraggly red beard and thinning hair. But she, of all people, knew there was no telling what circumstances had led him to this life. She shifted her weight and leaned forward as the door opened.

  It was a child, not more than four or five, a little girl with blond hair that could use a good shampoo and combing. She was wearing skimpy little pajamas and looked cold. The dog was one of those like the queen of England had, with short stumpy legs. He thrust his head at Mary Bridget and shifted the girl aside.

  “Hey,” Mary Bridget said, holding her hand out to the dog. He sniffed it and pushed a cold, wet nose into her palm. “Is your mama or daddy awake?”

  The little girl didn’t answer. Just rubbed a calf with her foot. The dog was trying to get out. Mary Bridget caught his collar, and seeming to lose interest, the little girl drifted away from the door. Not knowing what else to do, Mary stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

  The apartment was messy but not as bad as she was used to. The pressboard tables were littered with pop cans and beer cans, brimming ashtrays, and a couple of plates of last night’s pizza. A newspaper and some of the little girl’s clothing littered the floor. There had been no children the last time she’d come here. She was certain of that.

  The little girl went back to the couch and pulled a baby blanket over her bare legs. The television was tuned to cartoons.

  “Where’s your mama?” Mary asked her again, feeling a sharp sympathy for the little child sitting here all alone, probably hungry. But actually, she had to admit, the child didn’t look scared or ill-treated. It was probably her own pains she was grieving, she told herself.

  “Mama’s sleeping,” the child said.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Brittany.”

  “Do you go to school, Brittany?”

  “Sometimes.” She lifted a shoulder. “When Mama wakes up in time.”

  Mary Bridget called herself to task. Remembered her mission. She wasn’t a social worker. The truck was parked out front for anybody to see if they cared to, and although he wouldn’t be calling the police, there was no doubt in her mind that Jonah would come looking for her as soon as he came down from his high. Or send Dwayne. She didn’t have time to spare looking after other people’s children. “Where’s your papa?” she asked, moving on to business.

  The little girl lifted a shoulder again and seemed to know exactly what to say to seal Mary’s fate. “I’m hungry,” she stated, and then waited as if she knew what would follow.

  Mary sighed deeply, then rose. She peered down the hall. All the doors were firmly shut. She went toward the kitchen. She hesitated a moment, feeling a little strange about rummaging around another woman’s cupboards, but maybe she could find a box of cereal and pour the child’s milk. Then her conscience would be clear and she could go back to the truck and wait. The little girl watched her, quiet and solemn. Mary sighed again, flipped on the light, and looked in the cupboards. No cereal. No food at all except a few cans of vegetables and a jar of Tang. She opened the refrigerator. There were some eggs, and the breadbox contained two dry heels of bread. She debated for another minute. Taking over somebody else’s kitchen wasn’t exactly good etiquette, but that seemed like a silly point, all things considered. Besides, the child was hungry.

  She scrambled the eggs and used the stale bread to fry up some French toast, which she served with butter and brown sugar, since there was no syrup. She mixed up the Tang, which would have to take the place of milk. Other mornings of scouring the cupboards for something to feed her brothers and sisters, of making meals from bits and pieces, came back to her in sharp relief. She shoved those memories aside and focused her attention on the child.

  They conversed between bites, and when the girl had eaten all she wanted and had gone back to watching cartoons, Mary Bridget finished the remains of the breakfast. She washed the plate and thought she might as well do the rest of the sinkful of dishes, her years of enforced homemaking coming back to her again. She came back to reality when the child reappeared, pointing toward the hall. “There’s Mama,” she said.

  The woman stood in the hallway and blinked a few times. She had short brown hair, six or seven earrings in one ear, and none in the other. The belly under the white T-shirt was swollen with the last stages of pregnancy. She didn’t seem offended or even puzzled at finding Mary in her kitchen, as if having strangers underfoot wasn’t an unfamiliar occurrence. “Who are you?” she finally asked, pulling her robe closed.

  Mary had her mouth open to answer truthfully, then remembered why she was there. It wouldn’t do to identify hersel
f. She hadn’t thought about what name to use, but the minute she spoke, it came out, almost by itself. And afterward it seemed right that Mama’s name had sprung from her mouth. Fitting that every time she spoke it, she would be reminded of how far she’d slipped from the person she should have become. It would be a cruel reminder of the truth of who she was—and who she was not. “My name is Bridget,” she said. “Bridget Collins. But everyone calls me Bridie.”

  ****

  Eric eventually emerged from the bedroom. He made the new driver’s license, went on the Internet and, with a few clicks, had Mama’s social security number. He threw in the card at no extra charge.

  Mary Bridget unzipped the duffel and, as inconspicuously as she could, peeled off four one-hundred-dollar bills from the first bundle she grabbed, then handed them over. The driver’s license was still hot from the laminator, and the face that was framed in the picture was strange. Her own, yet not her own, and the name felt the same way. “Bridie.” She repeated it firmly and told herself to get used to it. This was who she was now. “Bridie Collins.”

  Eric asked no questions. The woman spoke hardly at all. “You know your way around the kitchen” was all she said by way of thanks.

  “My mama was sick for a long time when I was growing up. I did most of the housekeeping.”

  “She die?” the woman asked, almost casually.

  Mary didn’t answer for a moment. Why did strangers think they deserved to know everything about you? She finally nodded, remembering her father’s terse instructions that she tell her brother and sisters that their mother had died. “I’ve got to go to work,” he’d said. “You’ll handle it better than I would, anyway.”

  Their business transacted, Mary said good-bye to the child, thanked Eric, and got as far as the door. “You won’t tell anyone?” she asked, turning back.

  “I wouldn’t stay in business long if I did,” Eric answered in his oddly gentle voice.

  On impulse Mary rummaged in the duffel again, then crossed to the woman and thrust another hundred dollars into her hand. “Here. Buy something for the children,” she said and turned away before the woman could answer.

  Eric said nothing. The child said nothing. Not even the woman acknowledged the gift. Mary Bridget glanced back one last time as she left them, gaunt and quiet, watching her from the couch.

  ****

  The truck found its final resting place behind a huge magnolia in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot. She took the registration from the glove box and shoved it into her backpack. Not that it would do much good. They could trace the truck through the license plates, but she didn’t have the time or the tools to mess with removing them. She left the keys in the ignition, hoping someone would steal it. What wasn’t there couldn’t be tracked. She walked across the street to the Greyhound bus station, annoyed at herself for worrying about Dwayne and Jonah. It was like she was mama to the whole sorry world.

  “Where to, miss?” the attendant asked when it was her turn at the counter.

  Mary Bridget hoisted up her backpack and gripped the duffel, her hands shaking from fear and hunger and fatigue.

  She shook her head and wanted to say anywhere, but that wouldn’t do. She needed to be calm and sure and not do or say anything that would cause him to remember her. She read the destination of the next departing coach from the board behind the clerk’s head, and when she spoke it was with a firm, sure voice. “Alexandria,” she said.

  “That’ll be twenty-two dollars,” he said, and Mary put two twenties into his outstretched hand.

  He handed her the ticket and change, and she ducked her head and walked out to the departure area. She boarded, not daring even to look around until the bus had started up and rattled its way onto the highway. She looked out the window for an hour or so and didn’t see any familiar vehicles, and finally, when the rolling hills gave way to flat green pastures, she used her backpack for a pillow, closed her eyes, and fell into an uneasy sleep.

  It must have been the bus stopping that woke her. She sat up, groggy, and looked around, peered out the window, and read the sign. Culpeper. Everyone around her seemed to be in motion. Some leaving, some getting on. She wondered if she had time to get out and use the bathroom and buy herself some food. She reached beneath her legs to take another fifty from the duffel and her hand closed on empty air. She felt as if somebody had hit her hard in the stomach. She looked down, then knelt on the dirty bus floor and looked underneath the seat. Then the one in front of her and the one behind. Nothing. It was gone. She sat for a moment, clutching her stomach, then excused her way to the front of the bus.

  “Pardon me, sir.”

  The bus driver turned a kind face toward her.

  “Did you see someone get off with a green duffel bag?”

  He didn’t answer, just gave her an incredulous look and gestured toward the knots of people in and around the terminal, all equipped with some kind of knapsack or duffel.

  She nodded and vowed she would not cry. She would not be sick. She went back to her seat and sat there until her breathing slowed down. Until she thought of what she should do next.

  This was an unforeseen complication. She had been counting on that money to take her someplace far away. Alexandria was to have been a temporary stop until she could make her plans. But now it looked as if it would be the end of the line for her as well as the Greyhound. Her mind went over the problem, and it didn’t take long to reach a solution. If she couldn’t put a continent between herself and Jonah, even a state or two, then she had to make sure he wasn’t in a position to follow her. She nodded slightly with resolution and hardened her heart, then unzipped the pocket of her backpack and took out the change from the hundred she’d used to buy the hair dye. That and the change from the bus ticket was the only money she had left. She shoved it into her pocket and made her way to the front of the bus again.

  “Do I have time to make a telephone call?”

  ****

  “Received.” Walter Hinkley set the half-eaten sandwich aside with a sigh and shifted the cruiser into drive. Some folks didn’t have enough to do with their time, or they wouldn’t make such a fuss about drug paraphernalia being found in an abandoned pickup truck. Charlottesville might have been a sleepy little town when Thomas Jefferson lived here, but nowadays finding a drug kit was hardly an event worth interrupting his lunch break.

  He drove toward the Piggly Wiggly just the same, taking a bite of his ham and cheese every time he hit a red light. He could have put on the siren and lights, but there was no sense getting everybody excited.

  There he was. The store manager was hovering by the abandoned pickup like a worried hen. Walter shook his head and got his eyeroll out of the way before he emerged from the car. Ned Pearson was a law-enforcement wannabe, one of those people who probably never missed an episode of America’s Most Wanted or Cops. Even though his day job was managing the grocery store, at heart he was a crime stopper and he policed the Piggly Wiggly beat for all he was worth. Nearly every day Walter got a call about minors trying to buy alcohol or cigarettes. This was the big time for Ned.

  Walter pulled to a stop, brushed at his chin to make sure there were no crumbs. “Hey,” he called out as he opened the door.

  “Just take a look here.” Ned pointed toward the back of the truck, obviously excited. His combed-over hair was blowing around in the stiff wind and Walter suppressed a smile.

  “What have we got?” he asked, walking toward it.

  “Just take a look at that.”

  Ned pointed toward the back of the truck, and Walter peered inside the canopy. There was a fifty-gallon tank, stained blue around the valve—a tip-off that it contained anhydrous ammonia instead of propane.

  “I read about this in the Police Beat column and I think this is a crime scene. I’m fairly sure of it.”

  “Um-hum,” Walter said, keeping his voice level and his face straight. Ned was probably right, and this was a serious situation. It wasn’t Ned’s fault he reminded Wa
lter of Barney Fife. “Go back into the store,” he said calmly. “Call for the hazardous materials team. Tell them we have a possible meth lab.”

  Ned’s short legs were trotting away before Walter had even gotten the words out. He smiled again. He was being safe rather than sorry, actually. The jug of anhydrous was dangerous, of course, but it didn’t look as though they’d actually cooked meth in the truck. He checked anyway. He’d seen enough labs in the trunks of cars to know anything was possible. He opened the passenger door, flipped open the glove box, and glanced around the cab. Nothing there except the keys, swinging slightly, still in the ignition. Just like he’d thought, the lab was somewhere else.

  He stopped for a minute and frowned. Why would somebody go off and leave a perfectly good truck with keys in the ignition and incriminating evidence in the back? He shook his head. There was no telling. Drug dealers weren’t the most intelligent species on the planet. That much was for certain.

  He went back to his car and called in the plates. In a minute the dispatcher came back. Owner was one Dwayne Heslop, the address a rural box out in an adjoining county. He asked to be patched through to the Nelson County sheriff’s office, then gave them the address. He had no doubt they’d find a full-blown operation out in the woods somewhere.

  “We just got a tip for this address,” the sheriff’s dispatcher told him. “They’re probably already there.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes, sir. A woman. Anonymous. Somebody not happy with daddy.”

  “I guess not. All right, then.” Walter signed off. Well, that solved one mystery. Hell hath no fury, he mused, and washed down the last bite of sandwich with a slurp of cold coffee while he waited for the HazMat team.

  ****

  The Greyhound bus groaned into the Alexandria station around five o’clock. Mary Bridget took a city bus headed for downtown and picked a stop at random. King Street. She stepped off the bus, leaving behind the smell of stale diesel, feeling wrinkled and sticky and exhausted and cold clear down to her bones. She did nothing for a moment except stare. Alexandria wasn’t what she had expected. It was an old town of red-brick and cobbles. And lots of rich people. She could tell by the new, expensive cars lining the streets and the immaculately restored buildings. Crowds on their way home from work surged past her on the sidewalk like a river around a rock. She moved off to the side and stood under the eaves of a restaurant. She was exhausted, and her brain stalled, thinking about what she should do. For lack of a better idea, she began to walk. The lights were going out in the office buildings, her own reflection staring back at her from the tinted windows. She walked faster past the restaurants, which she could tell were expensive. Her stomach growled. She ignored it and kept walking.