by Rachel Caine
"You passed all the background checks to get your carry permit," he says. "Far as I know, you're legal as hell, so I got no problem telling people I don't know where you go when you leave here, and I don't have to tell them about the van. Don't ask, don't tell, you hear me?"
"I hear you."
"Got a few buddies who live off the grid. You know how to do that?"
I nod without telling him how long I've been moving, running, avoiding. Without telling him anything at all, which he likely doesn't deserve. Javi is trustworthy, nothing but, and yet I can't bring myself to disclose things to him about Melvin, about myself. I don't want to see him disappointed.
"We'll be okay," I tell him, and manage to summon up a smile. "This isn't our first rodeo."
"Ah." Javi sits back, dark eyes going even darker. "Abuse?"
He doesn't ask by whom, or whether it's me, the kids, or all of us. He just leaves it there, and I slowly nod, because it's true, in a way. Mel had never conventionally abused me; he'd certainly never hit me. He'd never even verbally abused me. He had controlled me, in a lot of ways, but I'd just accepted that as a normal part of married life. Mel had taken care of the finances, always. I'd had money available and credit cards, but he'd kept meticulous records, spent lots of time reviewing receipts and questioning purchases. At the time, I'd just thought he was being detail-oriented, but now I see that it was a subtle form of manipulation, of making me both dependent and hesitant to do anything without consulting him. But still within a normal range of marital behavior, or so I'd believed.
There had been one part of our lives that was strikingly not normal, but that was a personal, private hell that I'd been forced to relive under police questioning. Was it abuse? Yes, but sexual abuse between married people is a tangled topic at best. Lines blur.
Mel liked what he called breath play. He liked to put a cord around my neck and choke me. He'd been careful about using a soft, padded thing that left no real marks behind, and he'd been an expert at its use. I'd hated it and often talked him out of it, but the one time I'd outright refused, I'd seen a flash of something . . . darker. I never said no again.
He never choked me hard enough to make me pass out, though it had come very close. And I endured it, over and over, never knowing that while he was starving me for oxygen during sex, he was imagining his women in the garage, fighting the noose as he raised and lowered them off the ground.
It might not have been abuse, but there isn't any doubt in my mind that it felt wrong. Looking back, the thought that he was using me to play out his murders, over and over again . . . it's chilling, and sickening.
"We don't want to be found by someone," I say. "Let's leave it at that, okay?"
Javi nods. I can tell this isn't his first rodeo, either. As a range instructor, he's probably seen plenty of frightened women seeking comfort in their own self-defense. He also knows that a gun can't protect you unless you protect yourself mentally, emotionally, and logically. It's the punctuation at the end, not the paragraph.
"I'm just sayin' that if you don't have good paper, I know some people," he says. "People who can be trusted. They help out shelter victims starting new lives."
I thank him, but I don't need his trusted strangers. I can't trust them. All I want is the cargo van and the receipts, and I'll be on my way. It's a step toward departing, and I'm sad about it, but I also know it's necessary to be ready. Once I have the van, I have control. We can, if necessary, be long gone before the people hunting us can get organized enough to track us to our doorstep. We'll have warning and a good means of escape. I can sell the van for cash in Knoxville and use another identity to buy something else. Break the trail again.
At least, that's what I tell myself.
I'm getting up from the table when my phone rings. Well, vibrates, since I generally keep it in quiet mode--I've seen too many movies where victims brainlessly forget and their ring tones give them away to their killers. I reach for it and see Lanny's name pop up. Well. I can't say I haven't been expecting it. Lanny's acting out is, I think, only going to get worse. Maybe it's for the best we get moving sooner rather than later. I can homeschool instead, wherever we land.
When I answer, Lanny says, in a tense and unnaturally flat voice, "I can't find Connor, Mom."
I don't understand for a few seconds. My brain refuses to consider the possibilities, the horrible truth of it. Then my breath becomes concrete, heavy in my chest, and I feel like I will never breathe again. I gain control again and say, "What do you mean, you can't find him? He's in class!"
"He skipped," she says. "Mom! He never skips! Where would he go?"
"Where are you?"
"I went looking for him to give him his stupid lunch, because he forgot it on the bus again. But his homeroom teacher said he wasn't there and he never showed up for class at all. Mom, what do we do? Is he--" Lanny was starting to panic now, her breath coming too fast, her voice trembling. "I'm at home, I came home because I thought maybe he came back here, but I can't find him . . ."
"Honey. Honey. Sit down. Is the alarm on?"
"What? I--what does that matter? Brady's not here!"
In her distress, my daughter is calling her brother by his birth name, something she hasn't done for years. It sends a shock through me, hearing his name from her. I try to stay calm. "Lanny. I want you to go turn on the alarm if it isn't on right now and then sit down. Take deep, slow breaths, in through your nose, out through your mouth. I'm on my way."
"Hurry," Lanny whispers. "Please, Mom. I need you."
She's never said that before, and it drives a knife deep into me and cuts out something soft and vulnerable and vital.
I hang up. Javi is already on his feet, watching me. "You need some help?" he asks me. And I nod.
"We'll take the Jeep," he says. "It's faster."
Javi drives like the road is a combat zone--fast and aggressive, nothing smooth about it. I don't mind him taking the wheel; I'm not sure I'm in any shape right now to do it. I hang on hard through bumps he doesn't slow down for. The jolts rattling through me are nothing compared to the constant, jittery terror, and I can think of nothing but Connor's face. The vision of him lying bloody and dead in his bed haunts me, even though I know he isn't there. Lanny checked the house, and he isn't there--but where is he?
The question goes silent in my mind as Javi pulls the Jeep to a sliding stop in the driveway of our house. I am still now. Ready, the way I'm ready on the range with a target in the distance. I climb out of the Jeep and head for the door, unlock it, and quickly disarm the siren just before Lanny flings herself on me.
I hug my daughter, inhale the scent of strawberry shampoo and clean soap, and think about how far I will go to protect her from anything, anyone, who wants to hurt her.
Javi enters after me, and Lanny breaks free with a gasp, taking a step back in defense. I don't blame her. She doesn't know him. He's just a stranger looming in her doorway.
"Lanny, this is Javier Esparza," I tell her. "Javi is the instructor over at the shooting range. He's a friend."
She raises her black eyebrows a little at that, momentarily amazed because she knows I don't trust people lightly, but she doesn't waste time on it. "I checked the house," she says. "He isn't here, Mom. I can't see he came back at all!"
"Okay, let's take a breath," I say, though I want to scream. I go to the kitchen, where I keep a list of phone numbers pinned to the wall--my son's teachers, and the home and cell numbers of his friends' parents. It's a short list. I start dialing, starting with the friends. My anxiety ramps up with every ring, every answer, every negative. When I put the phone down after the last call, I feel hollow. Lost.
I look up at Lanny, and her eyes are huge and dark. "Mom," she says. "Is it Dad? Is it--"
"No," I say, an instant and unthinking rejection. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Javier noting it. He already believes that I'm running from someone; this just confirms it. But Mel is in prison. He's never getting out, except in a pine box.
I'm more worried about other people. Angry people. The Internet trolls, not to mention the justifiably enraged relatives and friends of the women Mel tormented and murdered . . . but how did they find us? Still, I flash back to the pictures from just a few days ago, of the faces of my children Photoshopped onto bloody, destroyed bodies, onto suffering, abused bodies.
If they had him, I think, they would have taunted me by now. It's the only thing that keeps me sane.
"You were supposed to walk him to class after you got off the bus, Lanny," I say. She flinches and drops her gaze from mine. "Lanny?"
"I--I had things to do," she says defensively. "He went on ahead. It was no big deal--" She stops, because she knows that it is a big deal. "I'm sorry. I should have. I got off the bus with him. He was being an asshole, and I yelled at him to go to class, and I went across the street to the convenience store. I know I'm not supposed to."
From the bus, Connor would have walked across the grassy triangle between the schools to the middle building. It would have been more likely for him to run into bullies than abductors, though there would have been plenty of parents dropping off kids outside the guard station entrance. I don't know. I don't know what he did, what happened to him once Lanny turned away.
"Mom? Maybe . . ." She licks her lips. "Maybe he just went somewhere by himself."
I fix her with a long look. "What are you saying?"
"I--" She looks away and seems so uncomfortable that I want to shake it out of her. I'm able to stop myself. Barely. "Sometimes he goes off by himself. He likes to be on his own. You know. Maybe--maybe that's where he went."
"Gwen," Javi says. "This is serious business. You should call the police."
He's right, of course he's right, but we've already drawn the police's attention once. If my son, of all people, has been sneaking away, being on his own . . . that frightens me in a way I can't even explain. His father liked to be on his own.
"Lanny," I say, "I need you to think now. Is there some special place he goes to be alone? Anyplace at all? In Norton? Around here?"
She shakes her head, clearly frightened, clearly feeling guilty for having walked away from him this morning. For having failed in her duty as an older sister. "I don't know, Mom. Around here, he likes to go up in the woods. That's all I know."
It's not enough.
Javi says, quietly, "I'll drive around and see what I can spot, if you want."
"Yes," I say. "Please. Please do that." I swallow hard. "I'll call the police."
It's the last thing I want to do. It's a dangerous move, just as dangerous as having Lanny as a potential witness to a body disposal; we need shadows, not spotlights. But every second I waste could be a second that Connor, hurt or (God forbid) taken, stands in real danger.
Javi heads for the exit. I start to dial the phone.
We both pause as a knock sounds on the door.
Javi gives me a look over his shoulder, and when I nod, he swings it open. The alarm chimes but doesn't go off. In the panic, I'd forgotten to reset it.
Standing on the doorstep is my son, with an inadequately wiped bloody nose, and a man I barely recognize.
"Connor!" I rush forward, past Javi, to grab my son in a hug. He makes a gurgling sound of protest, and some of his blood smears on my shirt, but I don't care. I let go and go to one knee to look at his damage. "What happened?"
"Got in a fight, I guess," says the man who's brought my son back to me. He's medium height, medium weight, sandy dark-blond hair cut short, but not as short as Javi's. He has an open, interesting face and eyes that lie steady on the two of us. "Hi. Sam Cade. I live up the ridge?" I finally remember him from two different sightings: first, he'd stepped in at the gun range against Carl Getts, and second, I'd seen him walking down the road below our house, earbuds in, waving quietly to us.
He offers a hand. I don't take it. I usher my son inside, where Lanny grabs his arm and drags him off to see that his nose is cleaned up as it drips more dark blood. Javi stands quietly, arms folded, a silent presence that feels very, very comforting right now.
"What are you doing with my son?" It comes out sharp, urgent. I see Cade's Adam's apple bob as he swallows, but he doesn't take a step back.
"I found him sitting on the dock. I walked him home. That's it."
I glare at him, because I'm not sure that I can believe him. Still. He's brought Connor home, and Connor doesn't seem afraid of him. Not in the least. "I remember you, from the gun range. Right?" There's still a sharp edge to my voice.
"Right," he says. My tone has brought a slight flush to his cheeks, but he's working not to sound defensive. "I'm renting the cabin up the hill there, the one up to the east. Just here for six months or so."
"And how do you know my son?"
"I just told you, I don't," he says. "I found him sitting on the dock. He was bleeding, so I cleaned him up and brought him home. The end. I hope he's okay." He's matter-of-fact, but his voice is getting firmer. He wants this to be over.
"How exactly did he get hurt?"
Cade sighs, looks up at the sky as if searching for patience. "Look, lady, I just was trying to be nice. For all I know, you hit the kid. Did you?"
I'm taken aback. "No! Of course not!" But he's right, of course. If I'd found a kid sitting with a nosebleed, I'd wonder if he was running from abuse at home. I've come at this all wrong, and too aggressively. "I'm sorry. I should be thanking you, Mr. Cade, not giving you the third degree. Please. Come inside, I'll make you some iced tea." Iced tea, in the South, is the hallmark of hospitality. Shorthand code for making someone welcome, and the all-purpose apology. "Did Connor tell you anything about what happened? Anything at all?"
"He just said it was kids at school," Cade says. He doesn't follow me in. He stands on the outside, looking in. Maybe Javi's silent presence is warning him off, I don't know. I make the glass of tea and bring it to the door. He accepts, though he holds it as if he's not quite sure what it's for. Takes a tentative sip. I can instantly tell this is not a man who's used to the Southern traditions, because the sweetness of it surprises him. He doesn't quite make a face. "I'm sorry, I didn't even ask your name . . ."
"I'm Gwen Proctor," I say. "Connor's my son, obviously, and you saw my daughter, Atlanta."
Javi clears his throat. "Gwen, I should probably get going. I'm going to walk to the range; I've got a bike there I can ride home. You bring the Jeep back and pick up the van whenever you want." He puts the keys on the coffee table and nods to Sam Cade. "Mr. Cade."
"Mr. Esparza," Cade says. I can't leave a stranger standing here with my iced tea glass in his hand, obviously, and I'm not ready to run off and leave Lanny and Connor at home alone, either. So I let Javier go, though I hold him back for a moment to look him in the face.
"Javi. Thank you. Thank you so much."
"Glad it worked out," he replies, and then he's gone past Cade, ambling down the drive, then kicking into an easy, loping run toward the gun range on the ridge. Marine, I remember. This is just a quick jaunt for him. No effort at all.
I return my attention to Cade, who is looking after Javi with an expression I can't read. "Let's sit out here?" I make it a question. He seems to think about it, then eases down into a chair on the porch. He perches on the edge of it, ready to bounce up and go at any moment. His sips of tea seem more polite than appreciative.
"Okay," I say. "I'm sorry. Let's start over. I'm sorry for accusing you of--well, of anything. That wasn't fair. Thank you for helping Connor. I really appreciate it. I was freaking out."
"Can't imagine," he says. "Well, they wouldn't be kids if they didn't make it a mission to freak out parents, right?"
"Right," I say, but it's a hollow sort of agreement. That might be true of normal kids. Mine are different. They've had to be. "I can't believe he didn't call me, that's all. He should have called me."
"I think--" Cade hesitates, like he's thinking about a line he doesn't want to step across. "I think he was just ashamed. He didn't want his mom to kno
w he lost a fight."
I manage a hollow, shaky laugh. "Is that normal for boys?"
He shrugs, which I take to mean yes. "Javier's a marine. You might want to ask him to show the kid a few moves."
I thank him, but inwardly I'm thinking that Sam Cade can also handle himself; he's compact, but not small, and he has a lithe tension in him that makes me think he's had experience at being picked on, and hitting back. Where Javi is so visibly military that someone would have to be blind to miss it, Cade comes across as a normal guy, but with an edge.
On impulse, I say, "Army?"
He glances at me, startled. "Hell, no. Air force. Once upon a time," he says. "Afghanistan. What gave it away?"
"You just leaned a little hard on the word marine," I say.
"Yeah, okay, guilty of interforces rivalry." His smile, this time, is unguarded, and I like him better for it. "The advice stands, though. In an ideal world, sure, he wouldn't have to fight back. But the only thing more certain than death and taxes is bullies."
"I'll consider it," I say. His body language is slowly relaxing, one muscle at a time, and he takes a deeper drink of the tea. "So, you said you're only in the cabin for six months, is that right? That's pretty short."
"Writing a book," he says. "Don't worry, I won't bore you to death with the plot or anything. But I was between jobs, and I thought this would be the perfect place to come for peace and quiet before I head off to the next thing."
"What's the next thing?"
He shrugs. "I don't know. Something interesting. And probably far away. I'm not much for being settled. I like . . . experiences."
I would give anything to be settled, and to avoid more experiences, but I don't tell him that. Instead, we sit in awkward silence for a moment, and as soon his glass is empty, he stands up to go like he's been released from a trap.
I shake his hand. He has a rough palm, like someone who's done plenty of hard work in his life. "Thanks again for bringing Connor home," I say. He nods, but I realize he isn't looking at me. He's stepped back, and is looking at the outside of the house. "What?"
"Oh, nothing. Just thinking . . . you really should get those roof shingles fixed before the rain comes. You're going to have a hell of a leak."