What was she doing here … if she didn’t love Marcus?
Lee glanced up to find Austin studying her, and she attempted a glare, but logic was worming in to distract her. Her actions didn’t make sense without …
You don’t love him.
No. She didn’t.
He’s a friend.
The friend of her heart. The friend who would die for her, who hadn’t walked away in ten years. The man whose body she’d now seen and touched, washed and tended.
Lee rubbed her thumb along the book’s spine and turned another page. Her eyes refused to focus on the words. Perhaps for no reason or perhaps because Austin had just mentioned Elliott Weston, her memory echoed with Aubrey’s voice.
“You should think about it … him and you.”
She had. Regardless of what Aubrey or Austin or anyone else thought they observed, she wasn’t able to love Marcus. Love was giving—not merely giving up an established life, but giving one’s soul. And Lee’s soul could hardly be called a gift.
19
Time. Wore. On.
Hours. A night, a day, and a night. The third day’s sun rose behind clouds like wool. If Marcus’s fever didn’t break in the next twelve hours, then the antibiotics weren’t working, and Lee tried not to think about the prognosis in that case.
The fever stayed below 103 degrees, but his sleep never seemed restful, more his body’s shallow attempt to hide from the pain. Lee monitored his temperature, pulse, and breathing, and woke him long enough to feed him and help him to the bathroom. He didn’t worsen but didn’t improve.
Austin and Violet passed the time with restaurant runs, reading (good thing Lee had more than one book), philosophical debate—which Violet usually lost—and squabbles for the TV remote, which Violet usually won. All three of them watched the national news every few hours. Otherwise, Violet alternated between ocean ecosystem documentaries when she could find them, and soap operas when she couldn’t. Austin did force her into a U2 concert special that he spotted while surfing, and over the next few hours he absently, quietly kept breaking into “Beautiful Day.” His tenor had perfect pitch.
By the overcast third day, Lee needed a good workout at the gym and at least twenty-four hours of solitude.
“News,” Austin announced around noon, and Violet changed the channel.
Their faces hadn’t shown up so far. At some point, though, Jason would realize Lee was gone as well as Austin and Marcus. Hopefully, Violet had been invisible long enough that the Constabulary wouldn’t think to include her in the search. At least one of their group needed the ability to walk into a gas station and pay cash in view of security cameras.
Local news rolled first. Yesterday, Violet and Austin would have talked over it, but quiet reigned today. Maybe Lee wasn’t the only one wearing down. The first national story caused subtle shifts in all of them, straightened posture and eyes trained on the screen.
“There are still more questions than answers in the matter of the state of Texas, which ratified a motion to secede late in June this year.”
As if anyone didn’t know that. Lee rolled the tension from her shoulders and sank onto the edge of Marcus’s bed. His hand twitched, then his eyes opened. They closed again after a quick gauge of his surroundings, but based on his breathing, he remained awake.
“Latest on the list of unknowns is what kind of measures would be taken to secure fugitives who have committed crimes in other states. The border of Texas is being reinforced daily—they claim in order to preserve their sovereignty as a nation. But many people see this as a way to defy the American legal system, particularly the Constabulary.”
Marcus opened his eyes.
“The federal government has petitioned on behalf of state Constabularies for authority to enter Texas and bring back philosophical criminals. So far, Texas is denying this request.” The news anchor took his story “to the streets” for a poll, in which people seemed to be split fifty-fifty. Half said the federal government had the right and duty to pursue criminals into Texas, especially Christians. Half said that if Texas wanted to welcome terrorists over its borders, why not let them? Taxpayers could save money on re-education.
“This already got resolved,” Violet said. “The President said so. Texas is sovereign. This guy’s talking like that never happened.”
Austin shrugged. “There’s still a ton of controversy on it, and one speech didn’t change that. So now they’ll show the public a neutral poll and watch their reaction.”
Violet shook her head. “You seriously think they might decide to—oh! Hey, Marcus. You’re awake.”
Marcus’s eyes darted to hers, clear and focused, an acknowledgment despite his silence.
“We’re checking the news for your face.” Violet ventured a smile. “So far, so good.”
He nodded against the pillow and turned his attention to the television. A few stories later, Violet cartwheeled the remote between her hands, ready to change the channel back to her special on the Great Barrier Reef. The camera cut back to the anchorman.
“Michigan Philosophical Constabulary officials had the task of arresting one of their own this morning. He’s been identified as Agent Samuel Stiles of …”
No. No, no, no. His face appeared, filling half the screen. A mug shot.
“Lee,” Violet said.
“Quiet.” She had to listen.
“The ongoing investigation is being aided by the cooperation of Stiles, who has confessed to a variety of crimes previously suspected as being the work of more than one Constabulary dissenter. Further details aren’t being released at this time. The …”
Lee tried to hear it, process it. “He set himself up.”
“You … you really think so?” Violet said, as Austin nodded.
The certainty on his face sent a surge of heat through Lee. Austin didn’t know Sam, not really. Which could only mean …
“You planned this together?”
“No,” he said. “I didn’t want him to do it.”
Of course, Sam hadn’t revealed his plan to her. She might have refused to go. Lee’s eyes burned. No, she wouldn’t have refused, not with Marcus’s life in the balance, and Sam knew it. He spared her the choice.
His picture was replaced by a weather map, and she pressed her hands to her face. If Jason somehow got hold of Sam …
“She’s starting to hyperventilate.” Violet’s voice drifted from the other end of a tunnel.
“Talk,” Marcus said. “Talk to her.” The mattress shifted. He was trying to move.
Lee’s lungs opened enough for an answer. “I’m fine.”
He studied her, concern etching into his face, deepening the grooves of pain.
“Marcus, I’m fine.”
He pushed himself up as Austin switched off the TV. “Where are we?”
“Ohio,” Violet said. “Toledo-ish.”
Marcus’s eyes roamed the room, then rested on Lee. “How long?”
“Almost three days.”
“In the same place? Why?”
“You’ve been very ill. You still are.”
An old, stubborn fire flickered, so far behind his eyes Lee had to be imagining it, seeing what she wished was still there. Or maybe it truly was. Marcus shook his head. “No.”
“The fever—”
“We’re leaving. Now.”
Austin began to pack away what few possessions were scattered around the room. He tossed Lee her book, and she caught it against her chest.
“He’s awake and coherent for once, and he’s right,” Austin said. “We need to keep moving.”
Because of Sam? Or because Austin finally had an ally in his push to get them as far from Jason Mayweather as possible? Lee glanced to Violet, and the steady gaze that met hers promised to back her, whatever that meant.
Marcus leveraged himse
lf upright. “No one’s safe here.”
Including him. Lee shut her eyes. Think.
They didn’t have to drive straight through. If the fever rose again, or if he simply needed rest tomorrow, they could get another room for at least a few hours. And every mile that widened the distance also opened more route possibilities for Mayweather to track.
“All right,” she said. “We’ll go.”
She opened her eyes, but Sam’s mug shot was burned on her vision. Sam, you gave too much.
20
Indiana blended into Illinois without much change as far as Austin could tell—flat farmland, green and brown patchwork fields, and the road in front of him. The highway widened and narrowed as the miles rolled by. Sometimes there was only one worn blacktop lane for each direction, winding through low hills of harvested crops and dry grass that soon flattened again. Right now, two lanes headed west, two east, separated by a wide stretch of grass and, as Violet had pointed out, some yellow wildflowers.
The sun’s last rays reached up from the horizon in front of him, but their pink glow was waning. Austin had squinted into the sunset for the last two hours, while it stretched and shifted color and turned the highway signs into silhouettes. Driving behind a semitruck for a few dozen miles had helped. Now dusk began to settle, and headlight glare left him less blinded but no less tired. All he wanted to do was park somewhere and shut his eyes, and he’d been driving for only six hours.
“How’s your head?” Violet said.
He massaged his right eyebrow, which felt bruised to the touch, but it helped the deeper ache. “What’s in that bag by your feet? Any beef jerky?”
“What if there’s only”—she gave a theatrical gasp—“fruit snacks?”
“Violet, seriously.”
“Sorry.” The bag rustled. “The jerky must be in the back. There’s peanuts in here, though.”
His stomach rumbled. “That’ll work.”
The top of the canister popped off, and then she tapped his right elbow. “Here.”
He must be starving, because the salty pittance she poured into his hand was kind of delicious. He turned up his palm for more, and Violet giggled.
Motion in the rearview mirror captured his peripheral vision. He glanced over. His blood froze. Cop lights.
Red and blue, not green. A regular cop. But … Austin pulled the truck over to the concrete shoulder. What had he done wrong?
“Oh, no,” Violet whispered.
In the mirror, the police car’s door opened. The officer stepped out.
“Please, please, Jesus—”
“Violet!” Austin gripped the wheel to keep from grabbing her arm. The officer would see any sudden motion. “Let me talk, but if he asks you a question, answer him. We’re driving to see my relatives in … uh, Missouri. In St. Louis.”
A suburb would be more believable, but he’d have to know the name of it, and he’d never been further from his birthplace than Ohio, until today. St. Louis proper it would have to be.
“What’d you do?” she said.
“We’ll find out in a …” Wait. “You think I planned this?”
She ducked her head.
He had to process that later. The cop looked to be about fifty, dark-haired and stocky. He wore a tan uniform shirt, dark green pants—not gray, not a con-cop, you’re fine, keep calm—and a badge on his chest, a nightstick and a radio and a gun on his belt.
Austin reached toward the glove box, where Sam had mentioned he kept the registration.
Shoot. The registration.
This wasn’t Austin’s vehicle. Not a criminal offense in and of itself, of course. But the vehicle’s owner was now a criminal, whose property would be investigated. Could’ve held off getting arrested for one more day, Stiles. No, this was Austin’s fault for agreeing to kill two and a half days in a hotel. And for not figuring out sooner that they needed to ditch this truck.
Violet’s trembling hand curled around the can of nuts as the cop reached Austin’s window. Austin hit the button to lower it. Come on, Violet, keep calm.
“Good evening,” the cop said. “License and registration, please.”
Austin took a slow, natural breath, and his chest expanded as if filled with light. He could do this. He flipped open his wallet slowly and angled it toward the officer. The gold badge gleamed, even in the dusk.
“Michigan Philosophical Constabulary, sir. Agent Delvecchio.” I outrank you. Even if he’d left his jurisdiction long behind.
“Let me see that.” The cop held out his hand.
Austin’s hand spasmed around the wallet, but he handed it over.
After a few seconds, the cop handed it back. “What do they do in Michigan, recruit you from undergrad?”
“They did with me.”
“How about that.” He propped a hand on his gun belt and smirked.
No words could wield a barb any sharper than the next quiet second, as Austin was sized up and deemed laughable. Heat rushed into his face, and the man’s mouth curved outright.
“I pulled you over for doing sixty-seven in a fifty-five.”
“Fifty-five?” On an interstate?
“Speed limit doesn’t go up until you’re past Effingham.”
He forced out the necessary words. “I apologize, sir. The sun’s been in my eyes for a while.”
“All the more reason to slow down, wouldn’t you say?”
“I will.”
“Now get out of here.”
“Thank you.”
The cop walked back to his car. Austin rolled up the window. Violet turned to face him, and he waved her to silence, his hand skimming above the center console, out of the cop’s sight.
Back on the road, he tossed Violet his wallet. “Could you pull the badge out for me?”
She tugged at it until the clip came free. “Here.”
Austin reached up to his sun visor and fastened it so that the gold glinted in plain sight. His hand shook, caught between nearly being manacled and hauled back home, and still wanting to punch that cop’s condescending lights out. He tried to calm his breathing. He’d been able to, only seconds ago. But now a blaze coursed through his body, and deep breaths only fueled the rush. In his mind, he tried to put on the green coat from second grade, but he couldn’t feel the warmth or the softness.
“You saved us,” Violet said. “If anybody else had been driving, that cop would’ve run the registration.”
Good for her, putting together the consequences. Maybe he underestimated her street smarts. Then again, she’d blurted a prayer to Jesus five minutes ago.
“Austin?”
She could see it. He had to calm down. The rage hadn’t grabbed him this hard in over a year. Why now? Because some state cop thought him young and ridiculous?
Violet’s eyes bored into him until he had to glance away from the road.
“What?”
“You don’t look right, that’s all.”
The laugh was a bark. “Okay.”
“Is it your headache?”
Thanks for reminding me. He sighed.
“There’s a rest stop in two miles, that sign said.”
“We need to keep driving. No, we need to find a used car lot and then abandon this one in a field somewhere.”
Except there was no way they had enough cash for that. What was the most they could pool together? A few grand? His stash was down to eight hundred. Lee had tried to pay for everything, insisting she had the most to spend, but a guy didn’t let other people pay his way. Not even on a protection detail.
“I know there’s something else wrong,” Violet whispered. “Will you talk to me?”
“Considering you thought I orchestrated that whole thing, I’d rather not.” The bite in his voice stung even him.
Violet bowed her head and rubbed her t
humb over her wrist. “Okay.”
He drove another mile and knew he had to stop. He barely made it to the rest stop without bashing his fist on the dashboard. He parked the truck but left it running, said something to Violet, and left all of them behind.
The place was a sort of park. He stepped over a low guardrail onto a pine-needle path that ran parallel with the parking lot. He inhaled the smells of wood and sap, stared up at the towering evergreens. What he needed was about half an hour with his home gym, bench pressing until the weight on his chest morphed into the weight in his hands. He glanced back at the truck. Nobody could see him right now. He dropped to the chilled ground and started push-ups. Dirt and pine needles crushed against his palms. One, two, ten, twenty, fifty, a hundred, not enough yet. Not until his body weighed more than that cop’s disdain. More than Jason’s gun cracking against his ankle and wrist, both still sore. More than Jason’s form standing over him while he couldn’t fight back.
“What’re you going to do about it, Austin?”
Shut up, Dad.
Sweat broke out between his shoulders. He stopped counting.
He lifted his body up from the ground one last time and held the pose, and his arms didn’t shake. For a long minute, he let his breathing slow, then drew himself to his feet.
Violet stood on the fringe of the path, watching him.
Not fair. This was his. She had no claim on this ritual, no right to watch it. He stalked past her toward the truck.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He halted, letting his profile face the headlights. Head on hurt his eyes. “What?”
“I know this is because of what I said.”
He rubbed his eyes and started walking back. “Did you check on them?”
Violet fell into step at his side. “Lee said Marcus’s fever broke an hour ago. I think she’s not as worried. But I think his ribs are … bad.”
Yeah, nothing hurt like a rib. Austin blinked against the image of a blurred arm swinging, the hand holding a skillet about to be set on the burner for Saturday breakfast. He winced at the phantom impact against his left side. And that had been only one rib, one hairline fracture, one bruise curving over his otherwise unmarred skin.
Take and Give Page 13
