Seek and Hide: A Novel (Haven Seekers)

by Amanda G. Stevens

  “What?” The word jolted out of her.

  “Worst case scenario, you go and tell them everything you told them last time, and they let you go again. Right?”

  Aubrey’s lips froze half open.

  A blush seeped into Mary-Beth’s cheeks. “I’ve actually known for a couple months, I overheard you talking on the phone … to your mom. When you first started. You thought I was out to lunch.”

  Talking to her mom? More like yelling. Aubrey couldn’t recall the argument, verbatim, but it had involved her mother’s judgment that she was “paranoid” and “self-absorbed,” and her own (yes, paranoid) accusation that maybe Mom was working for the con-cops herself.

  “Aubrey?” Mary-Beth said. “Wouldn’t you do what you did last time?”

  She shook her head, and Mary-Beth’s gaze narrowed, more confused than condemning.

  “Wait, are you saying … you’re a … a …”

  Her mouth snapped shut, and she turned toward the hallway. Before she could say a word, another voice drenched Aubrey like a plunge over a waterfall, over and down toward unforgiving rocks.

  “Hi. Where’s your restroom?”

  “Um, down the hall, back the way you came, last door on the right,” Mary-Beth said too quickly.

  Young had heard her. He must have. No one had ever taught Mary-Beth how to lower her voice, much less whisper. No, she hadn’t said Christian, but with the context he knew, Young would have no trouble interpreting her question.

  She met Aubrey’s eyes with humiliated apology. “I didn’t mean … I thought you … I’d better go back up front.”

  Aubrey didn’t answer or nod.

  11

  An hour after leaving his last client’s house, Marcus had devoured a sandwich, showered away the workday, and put on black dress pants and a mustard-colored oxford shirt. For this occasion, he’d even added a tie. No suit coat, though. Suits were for funerals, and funerals were for mourning people who needed comfort from other mourning people. He’d gotten rid of his suit coat twelve years ago, after the last funeral he’d ever attend. His shoulders had never fit, anyway.

  He stepped up onto Lee’s porch and tugged at his black tie, though it was already straight. He could not turn Lee into a criminal. She had to stay out of his new work—all of it. He sighed and pressed the doorbell. The subsequent silence tugged his mouth down. She really should have a dog.

  The door opened. Her gray eyes iced over at the sight of him.

  “Happy birthday,” Marcus said.

  “What happened?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Marcus. What happened?”

  Marcus took a silent breath and stepped out onto the tightrope of her questions. “I got hit.”

  “By whom?”

  Not by what. Lee knew a sucker punch when she saw one.

  “Some guy at the park,” Marcus said. “He was trying to get into my car, and when I went to stop him …” He shrugged.

  “Did you call the police?”

  “It was some drunk idiot, Lee. I startled him, he hit me, and then he ran off.”

  The wrinkle between her eyebrows might be suspicion. God, she has to believe me. She stepped forward and eyed the bruise, and Marcus breathed in the fresh scent of her hair.

  “You’re not easily outfought,” she said.

  “Took me off guard. Anyway, it wasn’t a fight.”

  “You’re fortunate he wasn’t armed.” She stepped outside and locked the door behind her, and her thin lips rose at one corner. “Shall we?”

  Marcus nodded again and walked her to his truck. His hand lifted halfway before he forced it down to his side. A hand on her back, light and guiding—simple, but to Lee, it wouldn’t be. She would flinch. He flexed his hand, then opened the truck door for her and offered a hand up, knowing she would ignore it. He closed the door and pushed down the rusty frustration.

  Lee didn’t mention his face again, and relaxation stole over him as he drove them to the concert. The venue was smaller than he’d expected, a steep-roofed building painted drab brown. Inside, the last beams of sun illumined stained-glass side windows to betray the auditorium’s former life. Maybe a cross had hung on the wall behind the stage that now held a single piano and various sound equipment.

  At least the building hadn’t been torn down.

  Marcus had purchased second-row seats. He followed to Lee’s right as she found them, removed her leather jacket, and settled it over one chair.

  “You look nice,” he said.

  Those three words never received acknowledgment, but he was still compelled to say them. The black sweater fit the lines of Lee’s body with just enough emphasis, and the gray pants were cut to flatter her narrow hips. Of course, if he mentioned a detail like that, she’d never wear those pants again.

  “The seats are perfect,” Lee said.

  He shrugged. “A little far to the right.”

  “Ideal, though, given the position of the piano.”

  Okay. “Have you seen her in concert before?”

  “No.” After a moment, her eyes left the stage to meet his. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  Her mouth quirked upward on one side. “My birthday present.”

  “You’re welcome.” He squashed the desire to encircle her shoulders with his arm.

  When the first song began, he leaned closer to whisper against her ear. She smelled light, fresh, a breeze of blossoms. “The songs have words.”

  “Of course,” she whispered back, then understood. “You were expecting classical?”

  “I thought that’s all you listen to.”

  “With exceptions.”

  “Oh.” He tried to refocus on the singer, but Lee turned to face him with a full smile, the curving lips unrestrained though they didn’t show her teeth. They never did. Marcus turned to experience this phenomenon head-on, never mind the concert.

  “You didn’t research the artist before buying the tickets?” she whispered.

  He shrugged. “I recognized her from the CDs in your car.” And classical music was dull but not intolerable. Besides, she’d watched Die Hard with him. Once.

  An hour later, Marcus had rediscovered three things. First, anyone who could pull those sounds out of something made of wood and plastic and strings was talented beyond his limited imagination. Second, he simply didn’t connect with music—not the way the people around him did, eyes rapt on the slim Asian girl’s hands as they strolled or scampered up and down the piano keys. Third, emerging from the short layers of her black hair, Lee’s neck was a slender, graceful, ivory snare for his eyes.

  Another song ended, and Marcus added to the applause around him. Behind him, a woman sniffled. The same woman who’d sniffled over the last song. What was he missing?

  The pianist looked out over the seats, appearing to see each audience member, though with those lights on her, she probably couldn’t see any of them. “This song came about because I was tired of playing the piano, but it’s all I know how to play. So I thought maybe I could use it as a drum.”

  Laughter rippled over the audience, then melted to silence as she began to tap on the side of the piano. The rhythm continued throughout the song, woven around the piano notes.

  The music fell away and didn’t return for a long moment. When it did, the audience’s mood switched. Again. Marcus never knew an instrument could create so many feelings in people: joy, excitement, peace, anger. This song, mostly pictures, seemed to build up their emotions with each verse: “The fallen pedestal, the broken vase, the overturned glass, the down-turned face.”

  It all meant something. Marcus stretched his mind for the answers to the songwriter’s riddle.

  “Tell me what’s the worst in me, that keeps you from safeguarding me?”

  Well, that was ridiculous. Nothing about a w
oman should keep a guy from protecting her. And if he failed to, she shouldn’t blame herself. His foot scuffed the smooth wood floor. One hand drew into itself, a loose fist.

  Lee turned her head to catch his eye, then raised her eyebrows in question.

  “Nothing,” Marcus whispered.

  The self-directed anger that washed over him sometimes—no, it didn’t make sense, not when you really thought it through. Lee was eighteen when it happened. He hadn’t met her yet. What had he been doing while she screamed for help and nobody came? Twenty-one years old, a man, no excuses, probably not sober enough to protect anybody even if he’d known. He drew in a deep breath and opened his hands.

  The music of the next hour blended into what he’d already heard, though Lee would probably say each song was unique. Maybe Marcus’s ears didn’t catch the nuances. Or maybe the soloist had no chance to keep his attention, not when Lee sat beside him, absorbed by the music, her eyes reflecting the subdued stage lights, her hands laced comfortably on her knee.

  When the encore ended and the house lights came on, they collected their jackets and left only footsteps ahead of the little tide of people. Lee waited to break their silence till Marcus pulled onto a main road.

  “What was your opinion?”

  He glanced at her profile, refocused on the road, and shrugged. “She was good.”

  “You don’t sound certain of that.” Was that amusement?

  “Well … just because I didn’t completely get it, doesn’t mean she wasn’t good.”

  “What specifically did you not ‘get’?”

  “You know, the usual. Why people get so into it. Like that woman behind us. And the … candles-underwater, fallen-pedestal-overturned-glass stuff. I know it all means something. I’m just never sure I’ve got it figured out.”

  She turned her head to smile at him. Again. Did she have any idea how easily he could drive them over the yellow line when she did that?

  “What?” he said.

  “For someone who doesn’t ‘get’ music, you retain lyrics surprisingly well.”

  A gas station’s green-and-yellow logo lit the north side of the upcoming intersection. Marcus could get her home without stopping, but this place was cheaper than most. His tank was down to an eighth. He made the turn and pulled up to the first pump.

  The display told him to remove his card quickly and begin fueling. Maybe his card had actually scanned this time. The pump allowed him to fill up before changing its digital message. “Please see cashier inside.”

  Hopefully, the new card he’d requested would come soon. He could barely see this one’s swipe stripe, and only certain machines were able to read it. Still, it looked better than his health insurance card.

  He opened the car door and leaned inside. “Be right back. This card’s shot.”

  “Ah, fate.” Lee got out of the car and followed him toward the tiny, brightly lit building. “There must be a freezer inside.”

  “That stuff’ll kill you,” he said, as if he’d never said it before. The grin that pulled at his mouth knew her response before she said it.

  “When you give up your daily consumption of fast food, I’ll consider renouncing cheap ice cream.”

  “What we need right now is a sundae bar,” he said.

  “So you can play with your food.”

  Marcus opened the door for her and followed her into the blast of heat. “So I can build a project and eat it while it melts.”

  “Construction, entropy, demolition.”

  “Rules of life.”

  “I’ll settle for a meaningless Klondike bar.” Lee moved away from him, toward the freezer.

  Marcus stood in line behind the only other customer. Some metal band gagged and screamed from the overhead speaker. Probably not the station that played during busier hours, but would the guy behind the counter actually choose this stuff? In his midforties, he’d gelled his hair straight back to conceal a creeping central baldness, like stiff grass blades trying to camouflage a bird’s egg. His musky cologne was no youthful scent, either. The woman in front of Marcus left the store, and he stepped up to the counter.

  “Wow.” The guy gaped at Marcus.

  What—? Oh. Yeah.

  “You get that in a bar fight?”

  “No.”

  The man laughed. “Pump one? Want a receipt?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Excuse me,” Lee said from halfway across the small snack store. “Your freezer is locked.”

  “Closing up the place soon.” He snatched a pair of keys from under the counter and tossed them to her. “Had some kids come in here and swipe half the drumsticks the other day.”

  Lee unlocked the freezer, leaned inside to pluck out a silver-wrapped bar, then joined Marcus at the counter. She peeled away the foil and took a small bite. The guy leaned toward her, and a meaty hand reached to reclaim the keys.

  Lee’s gasp ripped the air. The man froze, keys jingling from his fingers.

  Her face had blanched the color of new drywall. Her eyes had stopped seeing. The ice cream bar dripped a vanilla tear over her thumb. What was wrong with her? It wasn’t dark. She only panicked in the dark.

  “Hey, is she okay?” The man rounded the counter.

  Oh. Him. It … was … him.

  Something hot and red seized Marcus’s brain. His body surged forward. Shoved between Lee and the attacker. Pushed Lee away from him, safely against the wall. She stumbled, and Marcus caught her. The Klondike bar splatted onto the floor and caved in beneath her heel.

  Her breathing was too fast, too shallow. In a minute her legs would give out and she’d curl up in the corner, wrapping arms around herself. As if smallness was the only way to be safe. But she was safe now. This animal was going to die, now, finally. Marcus had found him, and he was going to break him into tiny, shredded, bloody pieces. Marcus was going to kill him, here and now, take out his eyes so they could never look at her again, make the monster beg for a chance to ask her forgiveness and then not give it to him. Marcus would break him, hands and nose, ribs and teeth—

  “No.” A voice he knew.

  His hands were curled into the bright green polo that bore the gas station’s logo, and the monster inside the shirt was cowering against the wall Marcus had shoved him into.

  But somebody had said, “Marcus … No …”

  Yes. Yes, yes, yes. Kill him. A growl slid between him and the monster. His own voice now.

  Fingers on his arm, clawing, digging deep, straining the fabric of his jacket. Lee. Oh, God, look at her, are You looking at her? The eyes that pled with him were dilated almost black.

  “Not,” she whispered.

  Not … not him.

  Marcus’s hands unclenched. The blaze inside banked to that old, feeble flicker. No justice, no finish, not today. The monster still prowled somewhere, and Lee still … Lee. His arm tried to take her weight. She stepped back. She could meet his eyes. She was still with him. But she didn’t let him support her.

  The man—not the monster, just a man—scrambled around the counter, stared at them both.

  “You get out, now, right now. Get out before I call the cops.”

  Already the plan. Marcus walked beside her, out the door, to the truck. He opened the door. She stared at it.

  “Lee.” Her shoulder went rigid at his touch. “It’s Marcus. We’re getting in the truck, my truck. You’re okay.” Her legs shook too much to step up into the cab, so he lifted most of her weight and tucked her inside. He closed the door, hurried around to the driver’s side, turned the key, pulled onto the road. He had to get her home.

  “Lee?”

  Nothing now. She couldn’t hear him, couldn’t see him. He turned on the dome light, but the weak glow might not be enough. Her breaths came nearly on top of each other.

  “Lee, it’s Marcus
. I don’t know what happened. But you’re okay. I’m here. Nobody’s hurting you. Can you hear me? Can you say something?”

  Nothing.

  “Listen. You have to slow down. Your breathing. Slow breaths. Lee.”

  He kept up her name as he drove, a one-syllable chant. He said other things he didn’t fully hear. If only he could cradle her through this, absorb the shaking against his chest, give her his body heat. After a minute, his hand ventured across the little space. Of course, holding her was out of the question, but maybe a touch would help to bring her back. Maybe her convulsing fingers would be able to open. He wouldn’t confine her, not even her hands. He brushed his fingers along the back of her cold satin hand.

  Lee jerked backward, and her head knocked into the window. A whimper escaped through her teeth.

  “No, Lee, it’s Marcus. You’re okay.”

  He kept on talking till he parked the car in her driveway. Safety within her own walls would help: familiarity, warmth, light. He rushed around the truck and opened her door.

  “We’re home, Lee.” He took her shoulder again to ease her down. Her arms were frozen to her sides, her back was a wooden beam. She recoiled from his hand.

  If he tried to remove her, he could make this worse. Going inside should be her choice. But the darkness and the cold out here weren’t helping her. He’d try, once.

  “It’s Marcus. I need to get you into the house. It’s light in there, Lee. This is my hand on your arm, okay? And this is, too—”

  She cried out as if he’d hurt her. She hugged her body and curled tighter into herself, knees pulling up, heels of her shoes digging into the seat.

  Marcus yanked his hands back. Right. No touch. He forced himself to shut the door, then ran back around the truck and got in. He turned on the individual bulbs to add to the automatic dome lights and pulled down the lit passenger mirror. He cranked the heat, and then he sat facing her. His own lungs constricted as she struggled for air.

  She blinked. How long had she been like this, an hour? The clock said only seven minutes.

  “Marcus—”

  “Shh. It’s me. Nobody’s here, just you and me. Nothing’s happening to you.”