Not a Sparrow Falls

by Linda Nichols

  “You made an ID for somebody, and I need to find her.”

  The redheaded fellow shook his head. The door started to close.

  Jonah’s cousin had been redheaded. They’d hounded her. Better be dead than red on the head. Better be dead than red on the head. Jonah stuck his boot in the door and reached for the gun he’d stuck in the waistband of his jeans. Better be dead than red on the head.

  “Whoa,” the fellow said. “You don’t need that.”

  That’s right. He didn’t. He’d forgotten the plan for a minute or two. He put the gun back and reached into his pocket. Pulled out the money he’d gotten from a week’s worth of selling. “I could pay you something,” he said.

  The fellow rubbed his forehead, but Jonah was cold and tired of waiting. Besides, there was that boy next door who might come back any minute. He stepped forward, shoving the door open with his knee, and the fellow sort of stumbled back. They stood there inside the apartment. There was a kid, a girl, watching television. Why, it was Mary B, right there, gone back to being a child. “There you are,” Jonah said, feeling the rage bubble up. “Why’d you take it? What’d you do with it?”

  Mary B was scared, he could tell. Well, she ought to be. She got up and went to the tattooed lady, left her cartoons playing.

  “Look,” the redheaded fellow said. “Let’s find what you want and get you on your way.”

  “Come on, Brittany,” the tattooed lady said to the girl. “Come with me.”

  The girl turned her eyes toward Jonah on her way out of the room. Big brown eyes. Not blue. So. She’d just been pretending to be Mary B. He narrowed his own eyes and turned them on the fellow.

  “You better quit messing with me and tell me where she went.”

  “Tell me who we’re looking for,” the fellow said, and he was over at his computer, punching buttons and clicking the mouse.

  “Mary Bridget Washburn.”

  The fellow clicked again for a minute or two, then shook his head. “Nobody by that name.”

  Jonah shook his own head. “Look again. I know she’d come here. Wouldn’t know to go anywhere else.”

  “What’s she look like?”

  “Blond hair. Blue eyes. Pretty.”

  The man shook his head again.

  Jonah started to feel the anger rise, but then he remembered something. He laughed. The redheaded man’s eyes got big.

  “She was probably toting around a big green duffel bag. Full of my money.”

  The fellow stared at Jonah for a minute as if he was trying to decide what to do. The baby squalled from the back of the apartment, and that seemed to help him make up his mind. He went back to messing with his computer, clicked some more, then after a minute the printer made some noise, and he handed Jonah two sheets of paper. “Here’s a copy of her new driver’s license and social.”

  Jonah took the sheets and looked hard at them, trying to understand what this meant. After a minute it was clear to him. She’d gone and turned into her mama. That’s all right. Didn’t make any difference to him. “I need to know where to find her,” he said.

  The fellow shook his head, and Jonah felt something hot work its way up from his belly. His chest got full of it, and he felt like he just had to scream. Like he was going to come apart or tear somebody else apart. “You better quit messing with me,” he shouted at the redheaded man.

  “All right, all right!” Redhead looked scared again. “If she’s working, I might be able to find out where, but it’ll take a while. Come back in an hour.”

  The heat started going back down. “I’ll wait,” Jonah said. He didn’t sit down, though. The furniture had bugs on it, he could tell.

  He watched the cartoons the little girl had left on, and he didn’t know how long it was, but after a while the fellow was tapping him on the shoulder.

  “Here.” He handed Jonah another paper. Jonah tried to read it, but it wasn’t any use. The words were changing places too quick for him to follow.

  “What’s it say?”

  “Bag and Save grocery,” the man said. “In Alexandria.”

  “Alexandria,” Jonah repeated.

  The man nodded.

  “Why, that’s not in California.”

  The man stared at him. “No. It’s in Virginia. Take highway 64 to 81, then cut over to 66. You can be there in three or four hours.”

  Jonah nodded. That was good. He didn’t know how he would have gotten to California. He pulled the money from his pocket and sorted out two fifties. The fellow didn’t even ask for more, just hustled him out the door. He was barely outside when it shut behind him and the deadbolt clicked.

  Thirty-Two

  Bridie worked on the breakfast dishes and wished she could reach him. He was the other Alasdair today. The one who was absorbed in his own world, and she’d figured out what made him transform. It was all this church business. When he got taken up with it, he turned into another person. One who was driven, who didn’t talk about the things of the Spirit and forgiveness and nothing being able to separate you from the love of God. No, this Alasdair looked as if he’d never heard the word grace.

  Not that he was receiving much himself. He had been killing himself trying to do a good job for these people, working on his sermons until all hours, calling on his parishioners and listening to their complaints, turning down speaking engagements that would take him out of town. But in spite of all his hard work, they wanted him out. Just last night they had come to the house again, led by that frail old Edgar Willis fellow. Alasdair hadn’t said much afterward, but Lorna had filled her in. They were going to call a congregational meeting to vote Alasdair out unless he came with them to Richmond for a powwow with the big chief this Saturday.

  “They’re hoping he’ll take the job the president is offering,” Lorna had said.

  “Do you think he will?” Bridie asked.

  Lorna had given her head a half shake. “I don’t know. If he fights, it will split the church. There are no good choices.”

  Bridie glanced at him now, her heart heavy with concern. He was here and not here, and she wished she knew how to call him back. He’d been sitting at the table behind her for fifteen minutes, not reading the paper, not talking, just staring into space. He’d probably be happier pumping gas, but of course, she couldn’t say that to him. She tried to think of what she could say, and again came up with nothing.

  Samantha thumped down just then. She clattered around getting her cereal and milk.

  “Are you sure I can’t get you something to eat?” Bridie asked Alasdair. He stood up, pushed in his chair, and started toward her. He looked so sad. She had the sudden urge to reach out and touch his hand. In spite of all their talking, they never touched, except for those nights of his illness.

  “No. Thank you.” He shook his head and reached around her to put his cup in the sink. “About this weekend,” he said, “are you sure you don’t mind staying with the children while I go to Richmond?”

  “No, of course not. Will you need me to stay Saturday night as well as Friday?”

  “Probably not. I’ll drive down tomorrow afternoon and stay in a hotel. The meeting’s early Saturday, and I’ll drive back as soon as it’s over.”

  Bridie nodded. He met her eyes then for the first time today, and oh, where had she gotten such an imagination? And why did it torment her so? But it seemed as if he was begging her to stop him. Do something, he seemed to plead. Don’t let me keep going farther away from myself. Don’t let me stay this man I’ve become.

  But what can I do? she sent back. How can I help you when I can’t even help myself?

  Samantha wormed between them and set her bowl and spoon in the sink. A few circles of cereal bobbed in an inch of milk. “Who’s driving me?” she asked, breaking the current.

  “I am,” Bridie said, her face flushing for no reason. “Let me get Cam and Bonnie, and we’ll go.”

  She turned away from Alasdair and forced herself not to look up when the back door opened an
d closed.

  ****

  “Could you hurry it along?” Bob asked. The government computer system must be powered by a mule train.

  Gerry’d been leaving messages like crazy, but Bob wasn’t going to return them until he had good news. He was only too aware that the sands of time were moving at a pretty good clip through the hourglass of life. Today was Thursday. Gerry had left word that the Knox Presbyterian elders had run out of patience. They were coming to Richmond for a Saturday meeting to settle this thing one way or another. Bob knew it was time to make something happen. His future was at stake. If he had to go with what he had, he would make do, but at this point every little bit helped.

  “Look, I’m not even supposed to be doing this,” Jim Wigby complained. “The only reason I’m helping you is because my father asked me to, and most of this stuff is a matter of public record, anyway.”

  Bob ignored him.

  Jim scrolled up the list, and there was the name and social security number of Bridget Collins. But it didn’t add up. Literally. Bob frowned and tried to make sense of what he was seeing. According to the Commonwealth of Virginia, Bridget Collins was dead and way too old to be this woman.

  Suddenly he remembered his own, oh, what should he say, experimentation with the facts when he’d pumped the church secretary for information. He had used his grandfather’s name. It had come quickly and easily to his tongue when he was pressed. Maybe MacPherson’s nanny had done the same. Which meant maybe she had something to hide. His pulse speeded up.

  “Run her for marriage and birth certificates,” he said.

  Jim grunted but obeyed.

  It took a few minutes and detours, but eventually Bob had a list—four certificates of live birth had been issued to Bridget Collins Washburn, and he had the dates and socials for each kid.

  “Look up this one,” he said, pointing to the listing for the oldest child. “It checks out for sex and approximate age. Her social’s there. Getting her name shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “It’ll take a while.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  With an impatient sigh, Bob rested his foot on his knee and tapped a rhythm on his shoe. He would have prayed if he’d been a praying kind of person.

  “I got her. Name’s Mary Bridget Washburn.” Jim jotted down the information and handed it to Bob.

  “Run her for wants and warrants. And I’ll need a picture.”

  “I’m not supposed to do this.”

  Bob sat up, no longer in the mood for playing around. “I beg to differ,” he said. “If this woman is using an alias and caring for children, it’s obvious there’s something nasty in this soup. I’d hate for it to come out that you knew and didn’t pursue it.”

  “You really are a piece of work,” Jim said, but he typed in the Internet address for the National Criminal Information Center Web site.

  “It’ll take some time.” This delivered through clenched teeth.

  “I’ll wait,” Bob repeated.

  Jim gave him a nasty look. “I’ve got twenty more minutes to give you. If you need more than that you should hire an investigator.” Bob ignored him. He went into the hall, bought a sandwich, poured himself another cup of the sludge that passed for coffee around here. He was onto something. He could feel it.

  He ate the sandwich, tossed back his coffee, and headed back to Jim’s dismal little office. Then the long night ended. Jim was beaming when Bob entered the room.

  “Take a look at this,” he said, pointing to the computer screen.

  Bob hurried in and peered over his shoulder. Hello! Pay dirt. Mary Bridget Washburn was wanted for the manufacturing and distribution of a controlled substance.

  “If this is the nanny, she’s got a few secrets,” Jim said.

  “I’d say so,” Bob agreed, his pulse pounding.

  “Shall we call the police and have them pick her up?”

  “No,” Bob answered quickly. “I’ll handle this myself.” Timing was critical. He printed out the dirt on Mary Washburn and went back to his office. He needed to think.

  ****

  Bridie almost drove past the Bag and Save to the Safeway but decided she was being ridiculous. She had to face them sooner or later. She unloaded Cam and Bonnie and went inside. She greeted a few people she knew as she wheeled past the check-out stands. Jeremy the courtesy clerk, Florence in Pharmacy. She didn’t see Winslow, for which she was grateful. Carmen was at the lead check-out stand, grinning and talking and snapping her gum. Bridie gathered up her groceries quickly, then got in Carmen’s line.

  “How’s it going?” Carmen asked, beaming. She reached under the counter and gave a handful of stickers to Cam and Bonnie. Bridie made a note to check their clothes for them when she did the laundry. Once a sticker went through the dryer nothing could get it off.

  “Pretty good,” Bridie said. “How about you?”

  “We’ve set a date, and I got my ring,” Carmen announced, flashing her hand. It was a pretty big diamond, and Bridie oohed and aahed appropriately over it.

  “I want you to be in the wedding,” Carmen said, serious.

  Bridie stared into those kind, warm eyes of Carmen’s, and suddenly her situation seemed unbearable. She was locked into some kind of limbo. It was worse than prison. At least in prison you could do your time and get out. She would never be free from this. She would never be able to say where she would be in a year, a month, a week, even a day. Her whole life could be rearranged by a series of numbers on a computer screen. She felt a shrill little shock. She hadn’t checked the prison Web site in weeks. Carmen was looking at her, hurt swirling in the lively eyes.

  “Nothing would make me happier than to be in your wedding,” Bridie said truthfully. She leaned across the check-out stand and gave Carmen a squeeze. When she let her go, she could see Carmen was back to her normal happy expression.

  “If you’re worried about money—don’t. We can work that out.”

  “Thank you,” Bridie said, taking the excuse Carmen offered.

  Carmen chattered on about the wedding, about the date, about the location, the reception, her dress. Bridie listened and smiled, kept Cam and Bonnie out of the candy bars and breath mints, and finally peeled off two twenties and paid for her groceries.

  Carmen gave her the change, then held up a finger. “Hold on,” she said. “There’s a phone message for you in the office. I guess she called twice, and the only reason I know is that Jeremy took the last call. Winslow’s such a baby.” She made a face, and Bridie tried to imagine who would be calling her here, especially with such persistence. Who would be calling her anywhere?

  Carmen handed her the paper. Did not leave her name. Call her, Jeremy had written. She shook her head. It was probably a mistake. Still, it was odd, and her stomach gave a little twist and rumble. “Did she say what it was about?” Bridie asked.

  Carmen shook her head. “Not to Jeremy, and if she told Winslow, he’ll take it with him to his grave—unless it makes you look bad. Then he’ll put it in the Post.”

  Bridie felt another twist of dread. Guilty consciences didn’t make for having much of a sense of humor. She crumpled the note into her pocket. She would call when she got home.

  “I’m giving up the apartment, Bridie,” Carmen said, expression apologetic. “We’re buying a house out in Herndon.”

  Bridie nodded. She’d been expecting that. It was just a matter of when. “Let me know the dates, and I’ll get my things out.”

  “No rush,” Carmen said. Bridie pushed her cart out and waved good-bye. There was someone else behind her in line.

  “I’ll be home tonight, but after that I’ll be staying at the parsonage for a few days. Alasdair’s taking a trip.”

  “Alasdair,” Carmen repeated, smiling as she scanned a bag of flour.

  Bridie didn’t smile back. She said good-bye. It seemed as if things were drawing to a natural ending point. Carmen was getting married. Alasdair was back on his feet and would most likely be moving the family t
o Richmond. She and Samantha were almost finished with the journals. It was time to move on. She didn’t feel anything but a cold heaviness at that thought. She loaded her groceries and children into the car and drove back to the parsonage, being careful not to call it home, even in the quietness of her own mind.

  ****

  Jonah flipped on the motel bathroom’s exhaust fan and turned the flame on the Coleman stove a little higher, shoving back the coffee filters and almost tipping over a Mason jar full of lye, his hands were shaking so bad. He clenched his teeth. Three days of scratching and scrounging to keep himself high, lifting car stereos and cell phones. He wanted his money. Then he could hire somebody to round up makings for him, set himself up in business again. He was getting close, he soothed himself. It wouldn’t be much longer.

  He’d found the grocery store today. Gone inside to buy his cold medicine and shot the breeze with one of the bag boys who was smoking out back.

  “You know Bridie Collins?” he’d asked.

  The kid had nodded. “She doesn’t work here anymore, but I think she still lives with Carmen.”

  “Carmen?”

  “Head checker. She’ll be in later.”

  Well, it was later now, Jonah realized, steadying his hands as he went through the whole routine, burning his fingers twice as he cooked and shot a spoonful. By the time he reached the motel bed and pushed aside the sackful of cold pills, the meth hit his head in a rush. It was like his whole body was roaring. Like ocean waves crashing inside and every one carrying away bad things with it and leaving a trail of glittery, sweet, sandy golden dust. He saw himself bending over, picking up the shining sand and eating it. Oh. It tasted like rock candy, like sugar straight from the sack. It melted on his tongue. He licked his lips. They were dry, but they sure tasted sweet. The waves crashed again and again and again. Little bits of him started washing away with each one, though. He got up and started walking. If he kept moving he could keep ahead of them.

  He locked the door of the motel room behind him and crossed the four-lane highway. He’d taken to keeping the Fury parked in the restaurant parking lot across the highway. He’d rather walk a ways than get picked up again.