“Eat. Then clean your teeth and go to sleep. No dreams tonight. I need a solid night’s rest or we’re never going to get to Napa.”
In answer, she scowls up at me, and I know she’s still angry with me because I went back on my word. The hell I did. This is a two-way street.
We watch Golden Girls while we eat, and then Branwen goes into the bathroom to use my toothbrush. When she comes back, I tie her up and switch out the lights. It’s early still, but fuck it. I’m so tired.
I wake up so many times in the night and I lie there, listening, wondering if it’s Branwen who’s woken me. I can’t even hear her breathing so several times, I get up and take a look at her in the dim light. Her ribs are rising and falling. All the same, I feel like she’s not sleeping either.
Finally, around five thirty in the morning, I give up, switch the lights on and untie her. I don’t feel at all rested but I’m awake so we may as well go. Branwen sits up groggily and goes to use the bathroom. She tries to hide her face from me but I see her eyes are puffy and red, and I know she cried in the night. I suppose she muffled her sobs in the pillow so I couldn’t hear.
Guilt slices through me. She was too angry or afraid to let me hear. I wouldn’t have been mad at her if she’d woken me up with her tears.
A few minutes later, we head out to the car. Branwen looks damp and rumpled in her hand-washed clothes.
We drive in silence. Thirty minutes later, just as the sun is coming up, we reach Las Cruces. I fill up with gas and then pull into another drive-thru coffee joint and order the same as yesterday, this time adding a couple of sandwiches. They end up in the well between the seats, untouched. I’m not hungry and Branwen’s listless and pale.
I can’t bear the tension in the car so I turn on the radio and crank it up. Seventies classic rock fills the air around us. That’s better. Now I don’t need to think. All I have to do is drive.
Branwen
I feel sick as we drive, and the sweet, milky coffee doesn’t help. I spent the night in a state of semi-wakefulness and when I did sleep, I was visited by terrible dreams. This time, it wasn’t daddy holding the knife to Cora’s throat. It was Geraint.
This is what being a Lange means. Do as you’re told, or I’ll have to hurt you too.
Then he hit me, like daddy used to hit momma before she learned her place—a vicious back-hand slap that made pain explode in my cheek and nose and blood pour down my face.
Look what you made me do, he snarled. And then he cut Cora’s throat.
I cried silently into the pillows, my whole body shaking. I was weak and disobedient, both in my father’s eyes and in God’s. Nothing I do is right and no matter which way I turn, there are no answers. Cora died because of me, and there’s nothing I can ever do to make up for that.
I could hear Geraint tossing around on the floor and I didn’t dare make a sound. He might have come up onto the bed and touched me again. I was afraid he would and afraid he wouldn’t. Maybe we both would have got some sleep if I’d woken him up and he’d done those strange things to me. I wanted it as much as I was fearful of it. The nuns at the convent would tell me a man who wasn’t my husband putting his hands on me was sinful. That Geraint is trying to be my priest, my confessor, and my God, and that such a thing is blasphemous.
We cross into Arizona just after eight thirty and some of Geraint’s cold, silent anger seems to ease. With every passing mile, we’re drawing closer to our destination. His fingers tap on the wheel to the sounds of Blue Oyster Cult.
Even with the music playing, I doze off around mid-morning. The last thing I see before I close my eyes is a road sign saying Tucson: seven miles. A few bars of Led Zeppelin or Bruce Springsteen invade my consciousness every now and then as I nap. The tall gates of Avallonis loom before me, forbidding and unfriendly, but I know I have to go through them. When I do, I’ll feel the flames of hell licking at me, ready to devour everything and make me burn for eternity.
I wake up suddenly to the sound of Geraint swearing. The clock on the dashboard reads a quarter past twelve. Ahead of us on the road, all the cars are stopped.
Geraint
Fucking traffic. Fucking roadworks. Fucking fuck. I slam the heel of my hand on the wheel and Branwen starts into wakefulness. She looks around at all the cars, her eyes bleary with sleep.
“Did I wake you, princess?” I say through clenched teeth. “I’m so sorry.”
We were making fantastic progress until just after Red Rock. Then two lanes were closed and the traffic slowed down, and finally stopped altogether. Every few minutes, we’re able to inch forward, only to stop again.
Branwen sighs, and then reaches over for her sandwich, opens the packet, and bites into it. After a moment, I do the same. We’re getting nowhere fast so I may as well eat my damn lunch.
For the next forty minutes, we stop-start-stop along the interstate. Branwen points at an LED sign flashing over the road. accident ahead. Jesus, fuck. Roadworks and an accident. I pull out my cell and check the traffic on Google Maps. There’s an angry red bar all along the interstate into Phoenix. The other roads are showing yellow for medium traffic.
“Soon as we get to an exit, I’m taking it, and I’ll try to get us through Phoenix another way.”
Branwen nods, and I get the feeling she’s as concerned about this traffic as me. Maybe she wants to get home? Given what I’ve implied I want to do to her daddy, I would have thought she’d be relieved about delays.
“You’re a funny one, Branwen. I can’t figure you out.” I step lightly on the gas and move forward by a few feet, and stop again. “It’s not just the silence. I stole you from a convent in the middle of the night and you’re taking it in your stride. Makes me wonder if you feel like you don’t deserve any better.”
Branwen lays her unfinished sandwich in her lap and looks out the window. I feel a ferocious burn of anger toward Adelmo Lange. The sweetest, loveliest girl, and he’s gone and petrified her so bad she runs away and suffers on her knees, for months on end. No one to comfort her. No one to tell her that’s enough, she’s forgiven. Just the cold silence of a merciless God. That’s not how punishment works. That’s just fucking cruel. No girl of mine ever suffers longer than she has to.
“I’m not taking you back to Avallonis to punish you. I’m doing this because I need you.”
Ignoring her lunch, she starts chewing on her thumbnail. I reach out and gently tug her thumb from her lips. “Hey, don’t chew your nails. I know it’s hard going home when you’re afraid. If someone was dragging me home, I’d freak the fuck out. Couldn’t wait to get out of that place. Didn’t even stop to think what I was leaving behind. You got any siblings, baby?” I ask, knowing the answer. She’s got three older brothers and none of them could keep her safe either.
She puts her nail in her mouth and starts chewing again.
“Hey, what did just I say?” This time when I reach for her hand, I hold on fast, the back of my hand resting on her thigh. “You feel anxious about anything, you don’t chew your nails. You squeeze my hand instead.”
Branwen immediately clutches my fingers in a death grip. Woah. All right then.
“I had a brother. Trefor. We were kids together in the system. I looked out for him. Protected him from the other kids. And then I left him behind when I turned eighteen. Really left. I never even went back to visit him.”
With my left hand, I reach over and change into first gear, move the car forward into the gap that’s appeared in the next lane over, and then change back to neutral, all without letting go of Branwen’s hand.
“My own little brother.” I stare out the windshield ahead but I don’t see the road. I see rows of bunkbeds and plates of shitty, overcooked vegetables. I feel the fists of the other kids in my gut and the endless, lonely hours in time-out. Trefor, with a bloodied lip, telling me it didn’t matter, he’d just get beaten up; I didn’t need to get into fights for him.
Branwen seems to be listening and I keep talking. It’s kin
d of soothing, talking about him to her. “We didn’t start out in the system, and don’t you fucking go thinking our mom couldn’t take care of us. We weren’t taken away from her, she was taken away from us.”
Beside me, Branwen nods solemnly.
“All right then. Mom was real pretty, but kind of broken. I think it was her parents who broke her, and my dad just finished her off. He took his time about it too. First, they had me, and then four years and a few separations and reunions later, they had my brother. In between, she got a helluva lot of bruises. I think she could bear it for herself, but one day, when I was twelve, he hit me so hard I saw fucking stars. She took me and Trefor, and she fled.”
I remember that road trip. We left in the middle of the night, just like me and Branwen did, and we drove and drove. Trefor slept for most of it, laying along the back seat. I sat up front with mom, not sleeping because I knew she needed me. “We managed to get a few states away. Then he came after her, and he killed her.”
Branwen looks at me sharply. I remember the blue flashing police lights and the lady cop with her arm around Trefor as he sobbed. The blood on the motel room bathroom floor. But mostly, I remember her screaming, and then dad coming out, covered in blood and standing over me with the knife in his hand, a choice in his eyes.
“He killed her in front of us. I always thought if I was bigger, meaner, I could have protected her. I couldn’t fucking do nothing.”
Branwen puts her other hand over the one holding mine, squeezing hard, saying more than words could say. I’m not telling her this because I need sympathy. But then, why am I telling her this? I don’t know, but I keep talking.
“We went into a home and were fostered out a few times, but it never stuck. I fucking hated every guardian and every teacher I had. I guess they all reminded me of my dad. I should have known better than to join the Army where I had psychos riding my ass, day and night, but I didn’t have many options. Eventually, they kicked me out, but not before they taught me to shoot.”
I already knew how to brawl, and after I left the Army, I started carrying a knife and a gun. Trouble just seems to follow me around. I don’t make it, but it finds me.
“Best thing to ever happen to me was meeting Arthur. He gave me a purpose that suited my skills and morals. I was twenty-eight and making a few thousand here and there as a hitman. I took down a target one of his men had been hired to take out as well. I guess this shithead had a lot of enemies. Arthur liked my style and offered me a permanent job, and I never looked back. The first time I saw headquarters, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.”
People like me don’t live in mansions like that. We don’t even get to step foot in them unless we’re laying concrete or some shit. Or assassinating some rich asshole, like I will at Avallonis.
Icy, black grief surges through me. “I should have known Trefor wasn’t hard enough for this life. He could never look after himself when we were kids. I should have—”
Angrily, I yank my hand out of Branwen’s, change gears, and close the gap that’s opened up ahead way too fast, stopping the Mustang in a screech of tire rubber. The driver of the car in front gives me the finger.
I’m breathing hard as if I’ve run a marathon and glaring out the windshield straight ahead. It was a mistake talking to her about any of this. I can’t let my pain over Trefor distract me from what I have to do. Once Lange is dead, I’ll deal with it then.
Right now, it’s just a job.
“Anyone who hurts me and mine gets taken out. No excuses. No forgiveness. Forgiveness isn’t shit.” I turn and glare at Branwen. “You hear me, baby? Forgiveness isn’t shit.”
Her nail is halfway to her mouth before she remembers I told her not to do that. A second later, her world converges with mine, and I remember.
Forgiveness is all she wants.
A few miles later, I take the exit just before Arizola, leaving the traffic heading into the heart of Phoenix behind. There are fewer cars on this road and we’re able to drive along steadily, but it’s fucking slow. Branwen taps my arm and points to a gas station. It’s two in the afternoon and she probably needs to pee.
Irritated with the whole fucking day, I pull over and we use the restrooms. Once I fill up the car with gas, we get on our painfully slow way again. The Phoenix bypass is a winding and indirect route through empty desert, and I start to wonder if I made the right decision, as mile after mile of rocky scrub stretches before us, seemingly unending.
Just past four in the afternoon, we finally make it back to the interstate at Buckeye, but by now, I need a goddamn break. I counted on us being in Los Angeles by now, but we’re only just halfway there. Branwen looks pale and exhausted. I wonder if she’d be complaining if she could talk, or whether she’s used to putting up with feeling like shit.
Buckeye has a main road but it’s sparse as hell. Counting on there being a gas station or a fast food joint at the junction, I keep driving and spot a Wendy’s. Hallelujah.
We get out of the car, stiff-legged, and make our way inside. I order two double cheeseburgers and fries, with a Coke for me and a chocolate shake for Branwen.
“I fucking hate traffic,” I growl, and take a bite out of my burger. We’re sunk in a booth at the back of the empty restaurant. Branwen nods, sucking on her milkshake. We eat in silence, absorbed in the food and the miles we didn’t cover yet today. Well I am, anyway.
When I finish my meal, I get out my cell and open Google Maps again, eating fries one-handed as I study the roads. There are two routes we could take from here. The first, along Interstate 10 through Palm Springs and Los Angeles, or north to Interstate 40, missing Los Angeles all together. It adds thirty or so miles to the journey but would skip a whole lot of traffic that would probably be in our way.
I show her the screen. “What do you reckon? Through Los Angeles, or the slightly longer route that goes north of the city?”
Branwen consults the map and then holds up two fingers.
“Longer route it is,” I say, shoving my phone into my pocket. “Good. I fucking hate L.A. I want to get to Needles tonight and it’s another two hundred miles. Three hours in the car. Think we can make it?”
That will make nearly fourteen hours on the road today, a grueling number for driver and passenger, but Branwen doesn’t hesitate. She nods decisively.
I find myself grinning at her. Hesitantly, she smiles back, and I don’t know if it’s the food or the hopefulness of a new goal, but a good feeling spreads through my chest. Like we’re on the same side, she and I.
“All right then, baby. I believe in us.” I collect our trash on our tray and dump it into a trash. “Next stop, Needles, California.” At least we’ll be in the right state in a few hours’ time. Shame it’s a big fucking state.
As we walk out to the car, Branwen slips her hand into mine. Not because I’m taking hold of her to keep my hostage close or because she’s resigned to her fate, but because it belongs there. That’s what it feels like anyway.
Branwen
Something’s changed between Geraint and me. The interstate has become an adversity we both share and all of a sudden, we’re on the same side now. He tunes the radio to blues and we drive into the dusk, a thoughtful but comfortable silence cocooning us.
My mind wanders over the conversation we had earlier. When he spoke of his brother and his dead mom, I could see the pain of remembered blood in his eyes. I wonder if that’s what turned him on to this life, the appeal of getting paid to take out people like his daddy. People like my daddy too.
At home, I had everything I could ever ask for and never had to lift a finger. Clothes, holidays, jewelry. Not love, though. I never felt much love at home—not from my father who was always scheming nor from my mother who let a nanny raise me. Geraint probably thinks I’m spoiled and naïve, but I know things. I’ve seen things too. My big brothers didn’t protect me, like Geraint did for Trefor as long as he could.
And now Trefor’s dead. It was his finger we bu
rned, I know it.
I gaze out the windshield as the sky turns from peach to blush to sapphire, remembering what Geraint said about forgiveness. Wondering why I still crave it so much, and if that makes me weak. How can Geraint think forgiveness isn’t worth shit when he gave me exactly that the first night we were on the road? I remember those three words—daddy forgives you—and a hot, golden feeling spreads through me once more, more precious than diamonds. It is to me, anyway.
I wish we could stay forever like this, driving and driving, with only the road ahead of us, but we pull into Needles just before eight o’clock. The sun’s gone down, making it easier to spot the glowing motel sign at the end of the street. Both of us weary, we get a key from the front desk. In the room, I slump down on the bed feeling like I’ve been running all day.
Geraint scrubs a hand over his face. He hasn’t shaved since we set out and the stubble is dark on his cheek. “I didn’t get you any clothes again, baby. I’m sorry.”
But I shake my head, letting him know it doesn’t matter. I barely thought about it all day.
Geraint takes a tired look around the room. At the dusty TV. The old coffee maker on the dresser. The faded carpet. “I need a drink. You want to stay here, or are you coming?”
Being alone doesn’t sound very appealing, so I get to my feet and follow him out of the room. The bar is just next door and almost empty. I suppose there’s not much business on Tuesdays.
We sit on stools and Geraint orders a Coke for me and a whisky chaser for himself. He downs the shot in one gulp and takes a pull on his beer. There’s not much to the place, just some faded carpet and chipped black paint on the walls. The mirror behind the bar shows me staring back, white-faced and tired. Geraint seems more at ease than he has all day. He catches my eye in the mirror and smiles slowly, and my heart flops about like a fish.
Vow of Obedience: Cavalieri Della Morte Page 5