Not a Sparrow Falls

by Linda Nichols

  “What’s wrong, baby?” he asked, and she could almost see cop alertness replace drowsiness in his eyes.

  There was no way she could keep this to herself. She took a deep breath and let the truth out with it. “I don’t know what’s going on, Newlee, but something’s not right. I’ve got a bad feeling.”

  “About what?” He tensed up, as if anything that could get her this rattled gave him a bad feeling, too.

  She hesitated one last time, then decided there was no other way. “Now, you know I respect people’s privacy, and I’d be the last one in the world to throw the first stone.”

  “What happened?” he pressed.

  She might as well spill it. “I came in just as Bridie was getting off the computer. She seemed so freaked out, I snooped. She uses my Internet account, so I clicked on the history to see where she’d been. This is what I saw.”

  She went to the computer and wiggled the mouse around. The screen appeared again, and Newlee leaned over her to take a look. He frowned, and his face hardened. He could probably tell it was a convict face even without reading the words underneath. They gave Carmen another chill, just like they had the first time. Jonah Porter. White male, thirty-three years old. Status: released. Offense description: manufacture and distribution of a controlled substance.

  Newlee’s jaw muscle clenched. He straightened up, and suddenly he was all cop.

  “I’ve seen him, Newlee,” she babbled. “Yesterday after work he was in front of the store. He looked high. That’s why I noticed him.”

  “Where is Bridie now?” He asked the question on the way to the bedroom as he was yanking off his sweats and pulling on his clothes.

  “She said she was going to the parsonage.” Carmen stubbed out her cigarette and started throwing on clothes, too. She finished as Newlee was pulling on his boots. “I’m going over there,” she said, grabbing her keys and purse.

  “Wait.” His voice was sharp. It was a command and not a suggestion.

  She waited. She wasn’t even tempted to argue, just watched, wide-eyed, as he strapped on his gun.

  ****

  There she is. Go after her, the spirits had said, and Jonah had taken off. Gotten into the Fury and followed Mary. He wondered if that was his money she had in that backpack she’d slung over her shoulder. She got on the city bus, and Jonah followed, running through a red light and two yellows so he wouldn’t lose her. She rode the bus clear out onto the highway. They passed his motel, and then the bus pulled into the Greyhound station, and Mary got off and went inside.

  ****

  Bob stared at Alasdair. MacPherson didn’t blink.

  Well, this was just great. What did this guy have in his veins that none of this fazed him? Bob couldn’t think of anything else to do, any other threats to make.

  MacPherson leaned forward, and Bob took heart. Good. Maybe he was catching the far-off scent of the coffee. He gave Bob a squint-eyed look, as if he was looking at a bug under a microscope. “Why do you do this, Bob?” he asked.

  Bob stared back, surprised into silence.

  “Something must motivate this drivenness of yours,” MacPherson went on. “This desire to win at all costs. You have a good job. Why isn’t just doing it well enough for you?” He kept staring, not even blinking.

  Why wasn’t it enough? Bob wondered, and suddenly it seemed like a question that deserved an answer, even if he had no intention of sharing it with Alasdair MacPherson. It was odd, now that he really thought about it. The whole time he’d been talking to MacPherson, it was like he was an actor delivering his lines. And it had always been that way. He never just lived events. He scripted and acted them, then judged his performance afterward through the eyes of an unseen audience. Would it impress? Was it dramatic? How had he looked? Was he a hit? Or a flop? What would the reviewers say? Every conversation, every interaction, every friendship, every date, every job was actually a scene he played. Now he peered into the dark theater, looking for the mystery audience. There was his dad front and center with a bag of popcorn. And Bob was still waiting for the applause.

  He wasn’t an unkind person. Just, oh, preoccupied. Always busy, eyes scanning the horizon for the next assignment. Looking for the next person in need, not even noticing the kid that bumped around his ankles. “Watch this, Dad,” Bob would say. “Look at me.” Then would come the dart of the eyes, the obligatory smile, the distant gaze, the quick disengagement. Back to important things.

  He didn’t even have the comfort of higher achieving siblings to blame. His brother and sister had been relegated to that same assignment in oblivion. Each had their own methods of protest. Dennis had gone the negative attention route, and Sherry, the tortured soul, was forever in therapy. Bob had tried achievements of his own. He gave a bitter smile as the picture of himself—full-grown Bob—appeared, still clamoring around his dad’s ankles. Still hollering, “Watch me.”

  He gave his head a little shake to clear it, then focused back on Alasdair MacPherson. He didn’t answer his question, just gathered up the papers and stood. “I’ll give you an hour,” he said. “Call by then or read about it in the Post.”

  MacPherson watched him, not saying a word.

  Bob wrote his cell phone number on a business card and held it out. Alasdair wouldn’t take it, just kept looking at Bob with an expression on his face that made Bob angry. Bob tossed the card onto the desk, said a terse good-bye, and left. Whatever hesitation he might have had was being washed away by his rising bitterness. MacPherson should save his pity for himself. He was the one who was going to need it. Bob started up his car and headed for the offices of the Washington Post. He would wait in the lobby for MacPherson’s call and put the finishing touches on his story.

  Thirty-Six

  The doorbell rang before Alasdair had even gotten all the way down the stairs. He went into the hallway and looked out the peephole. It was a man and a woman, both of whom looked vaguely familiar. He swung open the door.

  “Where’s Bridie?” the woman asked before he could even get a word out.

  He heard the back door open and close. He left them standing in the hallway and almost ran to the kitchen. He came through the doorway, eyes hungry.

  “Samantha called me,” Lorna greeted him. “Something about needing a ride to school.” An expression of concern replaced her usual smile. It deepened as she took in his expression. “Where’s Bridie?” she asked, gripping the back of the chair. “What’s going on?”

  He didn’t answer her and went back to the hallway. Lorna followed on his heels.

  “Carmen, what are you doing here?” Lorna asked.

  “Carmen?” Alasdair repeated dumbly.

  “I’m Bridie’s roommate,” Carmen explained. “This is my fiancé, Newlee Blackstone. We’re worried about Bridie. Is she here?”

  “She was here,” Samantha contributed from the stair landing. “She left.”

  “How long ago?” the fiancé asked.

  “About fifteen minutes ago.”

  “What’s going on?” Alasdair asked. Newlee and Carmen looked at each other.

  “Where was she headed?” Newlee asked.

  “I don’t know,” Samantha said. “She didn’t say. She just said she had to leave.”

  “Samantha, go to your room. I’ll have Lorna take you to school in a moment.”

  “No way.”

  “Go,” Alasdair ordered. “I mean it.”

  ****

  Samantha, go to your room. Samantha, go to your room. Every time something interesting happened, she got sent to her room. She stared at the floor for a minute, then, sighing, went over to the heat vent. This was getting sort of boring, but how else was she supposed to find out what was going on?

  She leaned down and stayed there for quite a while. She could hear everything. Carmen from the Bag and Save said some guy was after Bridie, and Dad was saying how she’d sold drugs and all.

  No way.

  Samantha listened a few more minutes. They were all trying t
o decide what to do. The lady’s policeman-boyfriend said he was going to call it in.

  Samantha straightened up, stepped out into the hall, and went into the guest room, making sure nobody saw her. As if. She went in and sat on the bed. Some of Bridie’s clothes were still in the wardrobe. Her Bible was on the bedside table beside the book she’d been reading. Samantha unzipped the white leather cover and opened to the first page.

  To Mary,

  Only one life, how soon it will pass. Only what’s done for Christ will last.

  Love,

  Grandma

  So Mary Bridget Washburn was probably Bridie’s name, not her mom’s like she’d said. Bridie had lied to her. She flipped past that page. On the next was Bridie’s name and address, written in blue ink:

  Mary Bridget Washburn

  Route 4, Box 252

  Woodbine, Virginia 22908

  She riffled through the pages to see if there were any other clues to Bridie’s past. Two pieces of paper fell out. A clipping from a newspaper and something printed off the Internet. She picked up the clipping and unfolded it. A black-and-white picture of a police car parked in front of a shack. An article about drug dealers getting arrested. She unfolded the printout. It was from the Virginia Department of Corrections Web site. It was somebody’s record or something. Jonah Porter. Samantha frowned. This was so not good. This meant it was true what they were saying. Bridie was a drug dealer, and she’d been lying to them all along.

  Samantha put down the papers. She probably ought to feel mad or something, but she didn’t. She sat down on the bed, and it was weird, but it was like somebody started showing her a video in her head. First she saw Bridie coming to dinner and trying to be nice to her and all, and herself blowing Bridie off. Then she saw herself in the Bag and Save trying to steal the wine and Bridie lying to cover up for her and losing her job because of it. The clips started coming faster, one right after the other: Christmas shopping, decorating the house, making cookies, reading Mom’s diary, talking, crying. By the time the show was over, Samantha wiped her eyes and folded her arms.

  So what? Big deal. She didn’t care what Bridie had done or who she’d been before. Bridie. Mary. Whatever. What difference did it make? It’s like, a person ought to have a second chance, shouldn’t they?

  Samantha looked down at the Bible. She didn’t know where to go or what to do.

  “God, I could use some help. Please,” she added. She opened her eyes, then shut them again. No more videos. She shoved the clipping and the printout back into the Bible, went to put it back on the table, then stuck it under the band of her jeans instead. She had a feeling it might come in handy. She went into the hallway. They were still going ballistic downstairs. Samantha darted back into her room and got out the envelope of money she’d gotten for Christmas. Aunt Winifred and Fiona always gave her twenty dollars each. She shoved the bills into her pocket and crept to the top of the stairs.

  They were still talking. She walked down past them, all calm and everything, and of course nobody even noticed her. She slipped out the back door, cut across the lawn, then stopped. Where exactly was she going? She bit her lip and decided to take things one step at a time.

  If she were Bridie, what would she do?

  Get out of town.

  How? It’s not like she had a car.

  The bus.

  Exactly. Yeah. Bridie said she’d taken the bus to Alexandria. So she’d probably take it away from Alexandria, too. Well, Samantha knew how to ride the buses. All those days of skipping school were paying off.

  ****

  “Coach 223 departing for Fairfax, Gainesville, Haymarket, Strasburg, Harrisonburg, Staunton, and Charlottesville now leaving at gate number two.”

  Bridie heard the announcement and peered out the bathroom door. She didn’t see Jonah. She made a beeline for the departure area but halted halfway there. That girl over by the door looked like Samantha. She frowned. That girl over by the door was Samantha. She waved furiously, and Bridie waited as she ran over.

  “Samantha, what are you doing here?”

  “I came to tell you it’s okay.”

  “What do you mean, it’s okay?”

  “I mean it’s okay that you did drugs and sold drugs. I mean, like, everybody makes mistakes.”

  Bridie’s mouth dropped open. She shook her head.

  “I mean, you’re not like that anymore. I know you’re not.”

  Bridie gathered her into a hug. Samantha hugged her back.

  “Come on back. Dad’s already sorry. He’s like, all defending you and everything.”

  “He is?” Bridie’s heart softened, then she shook her head, remembering her situation. “He shouldn’t be.” She began walking toward the departure area again.

  “Just wait a minute,” Samantha pleaded. Her eyes filled, and her voice sounded desperate.

  “I can’t wait, Samantha,” Bridie said, slowing. “I’m sorry. I’ve got to go.”

  “Just wait. Please.” Samantha turned and ran toward the pay phones. She turned away just long enough to put in the change and dial. Bridie looked between her and the bus, already starting its engine out in the loading area. The air smelled like diesel, and she could hear its door close in a whoosh of air. Why was she waiting? If she went back with Samantha, she would just get arrested here and never get to finish this last errand. She wrenched her eyes away from Samantha and made tracks for the turnstile.

  A hand grabbed her arm, and the thoughts that flew through her head went too fast to make much sense. At the first touch she’d hoped for Alasdair. But before she could even turn her head, the cues were telling her she was wrong. This hand didn’t belong to Alasdair. It wasn’t gentle, but gripped her hard. It was bruising, full of hatred and anger and craziness. When she saw who it was, she wasn’t even surprised. Her heart had recognized Jonah even before her eyes.

  “Don’t make me kill any of these people,” he said, flipping open his jacket to show her the butt of a gun.

  She didn’t make a sound, just let him pull her toward the door. She didn’t look at Samantha. Didn’t want Jonah to notice Samantha in any way. He shoved her toward an old Plymouth, then opened the driver’s-side door and made her slide across.

  He grabbed her backpack and rifled through it, tossing clothes and toiletries all over the seat. “Where is it?” he asked when he’d finished.

  His money, of course. And the minute she told him it was gone, she would be, too. Besides, she could tell from just a glance that he was tweaked out. At the craziest, most paranoid of his high. She’d seen him like this lots of times before. He’d shoot up and use more and more and more, upping the high each time he started to come down. This was the worst, the most violent, the most dangerous time. Next would come a few minutes of sanity followed by a crash. Sleeping, comatose, no danger to anyone. She needed some time. She needed to get him away from Samantha, who was coming back toward her right now.

  He took the ticket out of her hand, and too late, she wished she’d dropped it.

  He read her destination, gave her a wise look, as if he’d suspected as much, then started up the engine and roared out of the parking lot. Bridie risked a last look at Samantha, but instead of being hysterical as she’d expected, Samantha was staring hard at the car, as if she was memorizing every detail, then she turned and ran back into the bus station.

  ****

  “Slow down, Samantha, and tell me where you are.” Alasdair plugged up his free ear, glad he had taken the call in the kitchen. Lorna watched him, her face pale.

  “I’m at the bus station, and some guy just made Bridie get in a car, and they took off.”

  “Stay where you are.” He hung up the telephone, grabbed his jacket off the coatrack. He stepped into the hall and motioned for Newlee to join him in the kitchen, then told him in two sentences what had happened.

  “Let’s go out the back,” Newlee said. “If we go out the front, Carmen will be a problem.”

  “I’ll stay with the chi
ldren,” Lorna promised.

  “Could you give Carmen a ride home?”

  “Of course.”

  “Let’s take my car,” Newlee said to Alasdair. “We can radio.”

  Alasdair nodded, and suddenly nothing mattered—not his career, not his home, not his future, not the secrets he might read in the paper tomorrow. He had one burning desire—to find Bridie and bring her home. He didn’t care what she had done. He only knew he couldn’t bear to lose her.

  Samantha was waiting in front of the bus station, not inside as he’d told her. She jumped into the backseat as soon as the car slowed. “Here’s the license number,” she said, sticking out her hand. She’d written the series of numbers and letters in blue ballpoint. His heart swelled with pride. She was a scrapper.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. She was getting on a bus that was headed for—here, I wrote it on this hand after I called—Fairfax, Gainesville, Haymarket, Strasburg, Harrisonburg, Staunton, and Charlottesville.”

  Newlee got on the radio and called in the plates. The car was stolen. No surprise there.

  “Here’s where I think she’s going,” Samantha said. She thrust a Bible at him this time, opened to a name and address—Bridie’s real name—Mary Bridget Washburn.

  “Woodbine is south of Charlottesville in Nelson County,” Newlee said. “That makes sense. That’s where the warrant’s from.” He had a few more exchanges on the radio. “I guess we’ll head for Charlottesville and hope the police spot the car before we get there.”

  “Let’s take my daughter home,” Alasdair said.

  “No! I promise I’ll stay out of the way. Don’t make me go home.”