Seek and Hide: A Novel (Haven Seekers)

by Amanda G. Stevens

  “Marcus, what happened tonight isn’t … typical, for you. Not anymore.”

  The belligerence. The pitching feeling in his chest, like he was tied to the top of a ship’s mast in a storm, and the only way to hold on tight was to toast his own strength and down the glass. Lee had heard it all in his voice, no doubt. He bowed over the counter and held his head.

  “I … Lee … I’m sorry.” Heck, he hadn’t hung up on her in years.

  “I wasn’t soliciting an apology. We need to know what triggered this.”

  “My family could be dead.”

  The silence hung between them, and he lifted his head. Lee’s mouth drew down with confusion. In her mind, his family was already dead.

  “Not Mom. I mean my church family. The ones that got arrested.”

  “Why do you think this?”

  He stammered out the story. Lee listened without interruption, her eyes darkening at his description of the photo. While he talked, she put the ice cream back into the freezer, then sat on the counter across from him, feet dangling in her fuzzy socks.

  When he finished, she laced her fingers and propped her chin on them. “This doesn’t necessarily mean that agent killed her. We’re not even certain she was a Christian.”

  “I know. But if … and his wife, she was so … and I can’t …” I can’t do anything.

  “I understand.”

  Well, he didn’t. Nothing excused the thirst that still gouged his brain with need. And not for one drink, either. For the whole bottle. He went to the freezer and pulled out the ice cream.

  One side of her mouth tilted up. “Yes, you need a construction project.”

  “You didn’t get vanilla. For you.”

  She pushed off the counter and joined him at the line of topping bowls. “I’m having chocolate. Behold my boldness.”

  In this moment, anything was possible. Someday soon, her hand would reach across her space into his and hold on. She would stand in front of him, rest her hand on his chest, and decide it belonged there. She would let his arms wrap her up, his hands mold to the curve of her back, his chin rest in her hair.

  He tucked them inside, the things he could have someday. He let himself lean on the things he had now.

  18

  Marcus’s keys slid across the washing machine in a jangling dance. He washed his hands in the laundry room sink, scrubbing off the workday and only half-expecting Aubrey to come say hi. She didn’t.

  She’d actually waited up for him last night, expecting news of her baby. He shook his head. What would it be like if your child was held prisoner by your worst enemy? He shouldn’t be frustrated, but she was so scared, so convinced of nonsense, yelling at him last night that her son’s life could be in danger. Since seeing that picture yesterday, he understood better, but not even the Constabulary murdered four-month-old babies.

  He shouldn’t have shared his intention to get her son back. He’d raised her hopes too high, too fast. Her anger made sense. But lifting somebody from the Constabulary’s grasp required a different blueprint than warning them of an impending arrest, especially when the somebody was a baby. And he also needed a reason to return to Jason’s house and a way to search that office. If the Constabulary were murderers, he needed proof. And a plan of protection.

  One way was obvious, for his church at least. They’d be meeting again next Tuesday night, but Marcus wouldn’t be there. Couldn’t be. What did a church do when someone became a criminal? Vote on whether to keep him? Surely they’d want him to stay away. But no matter what they wanted, he had to sever himself. He shoved away the sting of … loss.

  They’d worry as they did last time. They’d pray he wasn’t arrested. But the lack of his name on the news would reassure them. Maybe, eventually, they’d assume a loss of interest on his part and let him go. He had no other options.

  He shut off the water and dried his hands on the threadbare towel looped over the faucet. “Hi,” he said to Indy, who crossed the kitchen with him.

  He halted in front of the fridge, and something cold zipped through him. He snapped up the folded sheet of paper scrawled with purple ink, and the magnet clattered onto the floor ahead of a ten- and one-dollar bill, held in the paper’s fold. Aubrey’s writing was relatively large, full of loops like shoelaces.

  Dear Marcus,

  First of all, I’m sorry for last night, for acting entitled. I certainly don’t have any right to ask more of you.

  Second, thank you. You gave me time and a safe place to forge a plan, and you did this at huge risk to yourself. You did more for me than most would do who have known me all my life. I don’t think you realize how much courage you have.

  Third, I want you to know why I’m leaving. I have a responsibility to my son, and I can finally see the way to fulfill that. If they have me, they have no more reason to hold those connected to me. You don’t have to fear for yourself. I would never, ever reveal your role in these last two days.

  Again, thank you. I’ll never forget what you did for me.

  God’s blessings to you through Jesus.

  Aubrey

  P.S. I took the black coat in the closet. I know it was worth more than $11. I hope it was abandoned.

  Marcus crushed the letter and hurled it to the floor. “Don’t fear for yourself?” She was the one banging on their doors and begging to be let in. And what kind of idiocy convinced her they would release her child, whether they had her or not?

  He had to stop her. He swiped the ball of paper from the floor and smoothed it out. He read the note twice more. No clues. She said she would exchange herself for her son. She did not say how she’d contact the Constabulary or where she’d go.

  Marcus quickly searched the house. She’d left the Wal-Mart clothes and taken only her purse. And her phone.

  The nearest Constabulary building inhabited the corner of Hall and Schoenherr, less than five miles away. She had to either walk there or call to have them come pick her up. They probably already had her. An image struck him—blood on her face, her eyes staring over his shoulder, lifeless.

  No.

  He scooped up his keys, grabbed a hat, and dashed back out to his truck.

  19

  This must be one expensive coat. Aubrey’s legs were chilled Jell-O, but her arms and torso felt as warm as the indoors. Her brisk stride down the sidewalk kept her legs and her bravery from buckling. She dialed the purple numbers she’d penned across her palm.

  “Hello.”

  “Is Jeff Young there, please?”

  “Speaking.”

  I can’t do it, I’m going to hang up. Her teeth dug into her lip. “Agent Young, this is Aubrey Weston.”

  In his silence, cars rushed by on the busy road to her right. A horn beeped, more greeting than annoyance. Now he knew she was near a road. Then again, his knowledge of her whereabouts no longer mattered. She kept walking, squinting into the sunset.

  His throat cleared. “What can I do for you, Aubrey?”

  “I want to make a deal.”

  “How’d you get this number?”

  If she told him, Mary-Beth could be charged with giving out confidential patient information, not only to someone who no longer worked at the office, but also to someone on the con-cops’ most wanted list. “I want to turn myself in, but I have conditions.”

  “You’ve got my attention.”

  “Did you release my parents?”

  “You know, I’ve got to hand it to you, however you got my cell number. I can’t trace your location.”

  A gray-haired man jogged past, wearing an orange sweatshirt and blue workout shorts. Ear buds bobbed around his neck. Aubrey returned his wave and let the distance spread between them for a moment.

  “If you still have them, let them go, and release my son into their custody.”

  The jogger never glanced back. Her
hand trembled at Agent Young’s silence. His voice finally came, nearly bored. “It’s sort of interesting, your hostage-negotiation approach.”

  “I’m the one you want,” she said. “They have nothing to do with this.”

  “You’re very sure about that.”

  “Philosophically speaking, they’re on your side. And you know that. You’ve already talked to them.”

  “Where are you?” he said.

  “Headed for the Constabulary admini—” Why had she told him that? “Are you saying it’s a deal?”

  “Three for one? I think I’m getting the short end here, speaking as a kidnapper.”

  Seemingly someone else’s nerve pushed words out of her mouth. “I’m sorry, I guess I’m wasting your time, then.”

  “No.” His voice nipped the word like a snap of fingers. “You want this, then I’ll make it happen.”

  “You have to call them, the building on Hall Road, make sure they know we have a deal.”

  “I’ll be there personally.”

  “Okay. Me, too.” She closed the phone with a snap that made her jump.

  A shiver wrapped around her, unconnected to the weather. She tried to square her shoulders, to thank God for this plan. Elliott would be free of them. Not free of their philosophies—his grandparents would try to raise him with a “safe,” legal belief system—but free of them. She would let some cannibalistic jungle tribe raise her son before she let the con-cops keep him one more day.

  She couldn’t think about what they would do to her, or she might stop walking. She tried to pray.

  A few miles from the intersection where the Constabulary building lurked like a sleeping dragon, the traffic thickened and slowed. Several con-cop vehicles poured themselves down the street, mired in the congealed soup of cars, trucks, vans, and SUVs.

  Would one of them recognize her? Her lungs skipped a breath. They might arrest her before she could reach Agent Young. But even if they did, that wouldn’t negate the deal. She intended to be arrested. Which agent got to her first made no difference.

  “Aubrey.”

  Her gasp sucked in an extra dose of the cold air, and her body spun to face the voice.

  Oh no.

  Marcus.

  From under the bill of a black cap, his gaze scorched her to the sidewalk. She couldn’t move, even when he broke eye contact to scan the traffic. What was he doing?

  “My truck’s parked a block over.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” she said.

  “Come on.”

  “Back to your house?”

  His glare said that was the stupidest question she’d asked since they’d met. “Your son goes to state foster care whether they’ve got you or not.”

  “He gave his word.” Oh, brilliant, give away more information.

  Marcus’s eyes shot from their surroundings back to her with fresh sharpness. “Who did you call?”

  “Did you even read the note? I’m done complicating your life.”

  “On your cell? Is it still on?”

  Why had God let him find her? She tried to walk away. His hand clamped onto her wrist. She jerked her arm, but he didn’t let go.

  “You,” he said, too close to her, “are making a scene.”

  “I’m making a—? If you don’t let me go in three seconds, I scream.”

  “This isn’t the way.”

  “Two …” His fingers relaxed, and she stepped back. “Go home, please.”

  She might as well hurl words at a brick wall.

  “They want kids,” he said.

  “He told me he’d honor the deal.”

  “They told the media Jim attacked them.”

  “And you said you’d get Elliott back.” And you obviously did nothing yesterday to keep your word, stumbling home at two in the morning after an evening with your girlfriend. The homemade soup he’d brought back gave him away.

  His knuckles dug into his neck, below his skull. “Aubrey. Think. They’re rebuilding everything. The future. They won’t trade a kid. And the government doesn’t make deals with terrorists. Or with Christians.”

  She shut her eyes.

  “He’s looking at you.”

  Her glance couldn’t help itself. A con-cop car crept toward them, hindered by traffic, no different from the others that had passed … except for Aubrey’s millisecond of eye contact with the agent driving it. He glanced down to the likely location of a computer console.

  “Maybe he’ll arrest me right now, and I won’t have to walk another three miles,” she said.

  The muscles in Marcus’s face drew tighter. If not for the parade of drive-by witnesses, he’d probably haul her back to his truck. The con-cop car inched forward another several feet. The agent inside still watched her. Now his lips moved.

  Maybe Marcus was right.

  If he was, she’d be offering herself up on an altar of futility, throwing away her real chance at freedom for both her and Elliott.

  “I leave my work at the office,” Young had said, which made the timing of the Constabulary’s pursuit one mammoth coincidence. Or it made him a liar.

  And that made Marcus right. Marcus, who stood here on an open sidewalk beside a wanted woman and didn’t flinch. She stared at him, and he stared back, his feet rooted miles beyond that line in the sand.

  She stepped forward and linked her arm to his. They’d act like a couple. It had worked in the store parking lot. He shifted to block her from the con-cop’s sight.

  Father God, if I’m making a mistake here, will You show me?

  No nudge, no voice. Aubrey walked beside him, her hand nestled in the warm corner of his arm. After only a few steps, his body stiffened, and a quiet breath hissed through his teeth.

  “Marcus?”

  “Walk.” He steered her left, down a side street.

  She obeyed in silence, but something was wrong with him.

  20

  Who else would have recognized the momentary pain for what it was? Marcus maintained an even stride. But this sidewalk stroll was a ridiculous ruse. Any moment now, a car door would slam behind him. A sidearm magazine would click-click into readiness. Somebody would yell, “Freeze!”

  His truck sat waiting a hundred feet away. “Turn off your phone.”

  Aubrey did what he said for once, but this was futile. All of it. He could break into a run, carjack a dragster, stow away in the landing gear of a plane … and he would never, for a single second, be hiding.

  Instinct commandeered action. He thrust Aubrey into the truck and found himself behind the wheel, maneuvering through traffic. He had to put some distance between himself and the enemy. But distance was all he could achieve now. He wasn’t invisible anymore.

  The intention must have been to tag Aubrey. Did the Constabulary use some kind of dart gun? Marcus had blocked the agent’s line of sight at the last moment, so they had to know their target was foiled. Maybe they’d planned to wait and watch her, but now they’d probably move faster. They’d also rush to identify Marcus, but he was likely still nobody for the moment.

  A pinching soreness gnawed the right side of his back, below his shoulder. His hands choked the wheel. The Constabulary hadn’t cuffed him and shoved him into a patrol car. They had latched onto him instead, and now they lurked here, in his own truck, under his own skin.

  Last day.

  Not yet, God.

  “Are we going back to your house?”

  Aubrey. He had to think of her, not just himself. “No.”

  “Not now? Or not at all?”

  “I don’t know yet.” He’d never seen a tracker, but he tried to picture it—like a bullet lodged in his back, silently screaming to the Constabulary, reporting every inch he drove. He had to get it out. Now.

  21

  By the time Marcus merged onto th
e highway, hands firm on the wheel, gaze sweeping, Aubrey wanted the silence to snap. If it didn’t soon, every rigid line of his body would break instead.

  “Where are we going?” she said.

  The quiet continued to coat them. Marcus didn’t glance at her until he took a tight loop of an exit, switched on the high-beams, and came out on a wide rural road heading north. He jerked the truck to the gravel shoulder without brake or blinker, then skidded to a stop and jammed the gear shift upward.

  “What’re you doing?” Aubrey said.

  “That coat’ll keep you warm. And here.” He pulled a pair of black ski gloves from the glove box.

  “You’re leaving me in the middle of nowhere, in the dark?”

  “In case they catch up.”

  “But I’m the one they’re after.”

  “Get out. Now. I’ll come back if I can.”

  “I’m not going anywhere until you explain yourself.”

  His glare nearly scalded her into taking those words back. “There’s a tracking … thing. In my back.”

  Trackers were real, then. She’d thought him paranoid when he mentioned them days ago. So at some point while they were walking, he’d been shot. He might be bleeding.

  “Now,” he said.

  She wrapped her arms around her middle, fingers clutching at the filched jacket. “What’re you going to do?”

  “Aubrey, get out of the truck.”

  With every argument, the con-cops drew closer. She should listen to him, get out and get away from that awful thing … in his back. While he scowled at the danger to Aubrey. Her heels dug into the truck mat. “You might need help.”

  “You want me to drag you outside?”

  Aubrey’s hand curled around the door grip. “You want to waste time trying?”

  His mouth tightened till the narrow line of his lips disappeared.

  “I know it’s a switch, but you’re stuck with me for now.”

  “I don’t need help.”

  “Shut up and drive, Marcus.”

  He threw the truck back in Drive. Gravel shot up behind the tires. About ten minutes later, he turned onto a dirt road, which led to another dirt road, which led to another one. The truck jostled them at fifty-five miles an hour, and he made no attempt to miss washed-out dips or outright holes. Aubrey’s hold on the door grip was no longer a show of stubbornness.