Seek and Hide: A Novel (Haven Seekers)

by Amanda G. Stevens

  “Yeah.” Marcus could have been a photograph of himself, motionless for the rest of time.

  “But she’s safe for now, right? They don’t know who did it?”

  The microwave beeped as its final ten seconds began to count down. Marcus pulled the door open and tugged out a plastic pack of blue gel. CLOSE DOOR AND PRESS START scrolled across the microwave’s glowing display.

  He turned to head for the hallway, gel pack draped over one hand. “I’ll be in the basement.”

  “Marcus.”

  He paused, finally turned when the silence loitered.

  “Are you in pain?”

  “I’m okay.” Off to the basement again.

  “So okay you can’t turn your head?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  If only, for once, she could do something for him. The desire hardened into a decision. Aubrey trailed him to the basement door, then slipped around him and planted herself in front of it. “This happens often, doesn’t it? Starts with a headache, turns into a stiff neck?”

  “Aubrey. Move.”

  “There are things you can do for it.”

  “I know.” He emphasized the gel pack with a jerk.

  “Have you ever had a massage?”

  “What?”

  “I mean, by a professional.” Her cheeks warmed for no reason.

  “You’re a professional?”

  “No, not exactly, but I work—worked—for a chiropractor, and we had massage therapists working there. I picked up some things.”

  He brushed past her.

  Aubrey snaked out an arm to bar his way. “I even worked trigger points sometimes. I might be able to help. Unless you’d rather take a painkiller.”

  “I don’t need drugs. Or anything.”

  “I’m not talking about a full-body massage. Just your neck, to loosen it up. I’ve seen it work for people before.”

  He could maneuver past her easily, even remove her from his way, but he didn’t. His eyes leaked a blend of weariness and pain, more than he must realize she could see. Aubrey held his gaze.

  “Okay,” he said.

  Before he could retract that, she headed for the living room. Marcus followed, but his ravenous strides had lost their appetite.

  “Have a seat.” Aubrey fluttered a hand at the couch as if it were a chair in Dr. O’s waiting room. Marcus sank down one cushion from Elliott. She rounded the couch to stand behind him … and her hands froze to her sides. She swallowed and nearly choked—silently, thank goodness. Her hands settled on each side of Marcus’s neck, and her thumbs explored for knots. His neck was a mass of them, small, malicious fists of gritted muscle.

  Aubrey’s thumb found a site of extra tension on the left side and pressed harder. “Does it hurt when I do that?”

  “It’s okay,” he said.

  Her hands followed the tightness downward, across the bulk of his shoulders, and discovered an entire colony of knots.

  “Do you get spasms?” she said.

  “Sometimes.”

  “Marcus, you need to see a therapist, really. This has to be incredibly painful.”

  “It’s—” His voice splintered as she dug a few knuckles into his left shoulder.

  “If you tell me it’s ‘okay’ one more time, I’m going to shake you.”

  His head dropped forward as if too heavy to hold up. Progress. A few minutes ago, he couldn’t have moved his neck that far.

  “Breathe,” Aubrey said. “Deeply and slowly.”

  Over the next ten minutes, she pressed with her thumbs, her knuckles. She dug her elbow into the worst of the shoulder knots until Marcus’s breathing roughened, then kept digging for a slow count of ten. She kneaded with the heels of her hands when her thumbs wore out. At some point, the tension broke from his body, like a glacier splitting from a mountain and sliding away.

  “Okay,” she said quietly, when most of the knots had released their grip. “How does it feel now?”

  His lungs filled slowly. His shoulders rose with the breath, and Aubrey’s hands rose with his shoulders.

  “Marcus?”

  “Thanks,” he whispered.

  Her hands should move away now, but they nestled closer to one another, on each side of his neck, and rubbed a gentle rhythm. Her words emerged on a soft curl of air. “Why do you live with this? It’s not that hard to treat.”

  “Lee says …” He still barely exceeded a whisper. “Everybody’s body carries stress … in its own way. Some people get ulcers. Or have panic attacks. Or can’t sleep. I get headaches. Not going to kill me.”

  “She told you not to do anything about this?”

  “No, just … that it’s nothing serious.”

  The silent minutes weren’t uncomfortable. Only after a few of them did Aubrey notice their heaviness. Stress seemed an inadequate description. Should she ignore it, ask about it, offer a distraction? “So, about that film book. I’m guessing the spine is in mint condition because you didn’t finish it.”

  No response.

  “And I get why. Kind of dull.”

  He gave a quiet sigh. “Lee got it for me. Long time ago.”

  Aubrey dug two knuckles into a stubborn shoulder knot. “She thought you’d want to read about movies, because you watch them?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know, you might like reading fiction besides Treasure Island. You obviously like all kinds of stories. You’ve got everything from Citizen Kane to James Bond.”

  “That’s different.”

  “So is Lee still trying to turn you into a reader?”

  “Not as long as I don’t make her watch James Bond.”

  Maybe her giggle shoved the next words out, or maybe it was the bend of his neck beneath her thumbs. “She, um, mentioned that you two aren’t together.”

  The delay could have been Aubrey’s imagination. “We aren’t.”

  “You love her.”

  His head lifted slowly, like a weight on a pulley. Did he know he was now leaning into her hands? “Yeah.”

  “Does she know?”

  Marcus nodded, a slow, loose movement.

  “Well, contrary to the stereotypes, sometimes the woman’s the dense one. Sometimes you practically have to propose before she gets it.”

  His breath rose in his shoulders with careful measurement, then left his body all at once. “I have.”

  She’d misunderstood. She must have. “You’ve what?”

  “Proposed.”

  “And … what did she say?”

  “No.”

  “But why?” Lee couldn’t be a fool of that magnitude, unless her intelligence, her self-assuredness, wove a blindfold over the eyes of her heart. She’d scorned this man’s devotion? She believed he wasn’t good enough for her? But it didn’t fit. She’d also turned herself into a criminal to rid his house of another woman.

  “She’s not ready,” Marcus said.

  “But—”

  “We’re friends. Until she is.”

  “Not ready for what, being in love?” Had Lee actually asked him that? “When does she expect to be ‘ready’?”

  His shoulders shifted under Aubrey’s hands. Yeah, she wasn’t doing a great job neutralizing her tone. “There are things … It’s not that simple.”

  “Sure it is. She must be nuts.”

  “You don’t know her.”

  So much for helping him relax. But Aubrey knew more than Marcus thought she did. Or maybe not.

  “Aubrey … Lee’s not playing with me. She doesn’t do games. When—if—her feelings change, I’ll know.”

  From the far side of the couch, Elliott bent a dimpled elbow and huffed a waking baby breath. Marcus’s head turned toward her son. His hand crept over the cushion to enclose Elliott’s foot. “Did he get sick?”


  What? “Oh, the deafness? No, he was born with it. It’s a recessive gene, so I have to carry it. Brett, too.”

  “It’s not your fault,” he said, as if her self-blame had leaked into her statement of fact.

  “Brett and I … we weren’t a one-time thing, you know. I’d tell him ‘no more,’ and I’d hold to it for … awhile, it varied. But never for long.”

  “That’s not why he can’t hear.”

  Are you sure? A tear rushed for escape, then a few more. She swiped at her cheeks, stepped back when the heel of her hand found several drops on his T-shirt. “Wow, I’m literally crying on your shoulder.”

  “’S … ’kay.”

  Aubrey padded around the couch and bent down to face him. “Marcus.”

  His eyes were half closed. At the sudden nearness of her voice, they opened again, but the sleepy mist didn’t leave them.

  “You’re exhausted. Lie down and go to sleep.”

  “Have to … work.”

  She lifted Elliott from the couch and eased him down to the carpet, then seized Marcus’s arm before he could struggle to his feet. A sigh eased from him as his eyes closed.

  “Good night,” Aubrey whispered.

  “It’s good he has you. Elliott.”

  “I try. I guess that’s all any parent does.”

  “But you’ll try at …” His breathing slowed. “… The right things.”

  His left hand found hers with his eyes still shut, enfolded it in rough warmth. Oh. She tried to ease away, but he held on. Heat crept up her arm. One-handed, she covered him with the afghan and tugged it up to his chin. A few minutes later, his chest rose and fell in calm cadence, and they both let go.

  35

  Red lights circling on one wall, then the other, through the window. EMT with paddles. An electric zap that accomplished nothing. Body on the kitchen tile, sheet pulled up. “That’s my mom.” Nobody listening except to glare with disgust. What had he done? “Bring her back! That’s my mom. You bring her back!”

  Awake. His whole body convulsed with a gasp that yanked him mercifully from the dream. Something soft buried one hand. He tossed it off. Oh, the afghan. And distant warbling. Aubrey.

  “If that mockingbird don’t sing, Mama’s gonna buy you a diamond ring … which makes no sense. Why would I buy you a diamond ring?”

  He must not yell in his sleep. Good to know. He sat up but let his breathing slow before facing her. She must have covered him last night. The fatigue had hit him so fast, even their conversation blurred now.

  He tested his muscles, and his neck turned easily. His shoulders didn’t try to tighten. His feet touched the floor as Aubrey entered the living room with Elliott on one arm, facing over her shoulder.

  “I’m afraid I misjudged you.” The glow of humor emphasized the dark flecks in her eyes. “I assumed you were one of those wagon-train-trail-guide sleepers, with one eye and ear open for hostile Indians or buffalo stampedes.”

  “Oh,” Marcus said. He felt his mouth twitch.

  “I have to say, Marcus, you’d be completely worthless in a buffalo stampede. You’d sleep right through it.”

  Yeah, probably. “Thanks. For last night.”

  “How does it feel now?”

  “Good.”

  Her lips curved into a slice of satisfaction. “I’m glad it helped you.”

  “What time is it?”

  “It’s Sunday.”

  He twisted to read the time on the cable box and stifled a wince. A massage couldn’t mend the stupid gash in his back. The glowing numbers propelled his body upright: 8:52.

  “Please tell me you’re not working today,” Aubrey said.

  “I was asleep for …”

  “About eleven hours, because you needed it. I figured I’d wake you up if the house caught fire or something. Or I’d try to, anyway.”

  Eleven hours was ridiculous. Marcus headed for the shower.

  “So you do have to work?”

  He turned back. Her hand rested on Elliott’s back, and she looked different today, not so hollow. Maybe a mother was filled up inside when her baby was close to her. God, Lee should’ve had the choice to have this.

  And … okay. Maybe he could wish for the choice, too. J.R.’s weight on his shoulders last night had felt warm and simple and right. But he’d never make a child with a woman that wasn’t Lee, so that was that.

  “Marcus?”

  He had to hold in a sigh. “No, not working. Just delivering something.”

  “No schedule?”

  “Not really.”

  She smiled as her baby nestled against her shoulder. “Perfect. I’m going to try flipping eggs.”

  “Okay.”

  “Oh, and I cleaned up the blood.”

  “Blood?”

  “In your truck, on the seat.”

  His feet shifted. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I didn’t mind, really. Anyway, it dried first, so it still looks pretty obvious. We should’ve scrubbed it out right away.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Well. Thanks.”

  After his shower, he found Aubrey in the kitchen. One arm cradled Elliott, and the other hand gripped the spatula. A golden pool of yolk sizzled in the skillet along with the whitening eggs.

  “I broke them,” Aubrey said without turning. “Just like I said I would.”

  “They’ll still taste good.”

  “I think you’re an optimist.”

  “They look okay. And you’ve only got one hand.”

  “Very true.” She rested the spatula against the skillet’s edge and swiveled toward Marcus. “Hold him a minute, I want to get the last one right.”

  “I—”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never held a baby before.”

  Had he? In his lifetime, maybe, but no specific memory emerged. This wasn’t the same as scooping up a sturdy five-year-old. Aubrey’s arms offered Elliott anyway. A tiny head lay in the crook of his arm. A tiny body settled against his, warm and breakable.

  “Okay.” Aubrey had already turned back to her eggs. “Here we go. One out of four, that’s not so much to ask.”

  Elliott’s mouth opened like a red flower. His head rolled sideways, face toward Marcus’s chest. Discontented noises lurched from him. Some people compared a baby’s cries to a kitten’s mew or a puppy’s whine, but they were wrong. Elliott’s whimpers were the complaints of a little defenseless person.

  “He doesn’t like me,” Marcus said.

  “It’s not that. He just can’t see me.” Aubrey paused with the spatula half under her last egg. “Face him this way.”

  Marcus did, and Elliott’s cries rocketed to screams. “Aubrey, he doesn’t like me.”

  “You’re new to him, and you’re not soft enough.” She slid the spatula the rest of the way and rushed the turn. Yolk trickled and hissed. “Dang.”

  She abandoned the spatula and held out her arms. As soon as Elliott rested there, the screams dwindled to muttering gasps.

  “Not soft enough?” Marcus said.

  “You know, women tend to have somewhat cushy arms, while yours are more—I mean, men’s are more—um, solid. Anyway, I’ve been thinking, and we have to talk.”

  “Okay.” Mentioning her blush would only deepen it, and already her cheeks almost matched her red sweater. He picked up the clean plate that waited on the counter, dug Aubrey’s eggs from the skillet, and deposited them onto the plate.

  “I’m not a freeloader,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “The kindness of strangers is one thing, but really, Marcus—”

  “Not strangers, family.”

  She sighed. “Anyway, there’s no end in sight, and babies are incredibly expensive. And we’re not safe for each other. If you’re out on one of your midnigh
t missions and get arrested, I will, too, and Elliott—and if they somehow find me here, same thing, they’ll take us all.”

  Midnight missions. She made him sound successful. He blinked away the flash of last night, the elderly man ducking into the Constabulary car. Elliott gurgled into Aubrey’s shoulder, as if to ward off the quiet. But he couldn’t know when her fountain of words bubbled and when it dried up.

  Marcus could not let them down. “There’s still Ohio.”

  “I knew you’d offer that, and I can’t ever repay you.” Her hand landed on his arm like a butterfly. The same hand that had cared enough to unlock the gnashing teeth from his neck and shoulders.

  “We’re even,” he said.

  “Hardly.” Her eyes caught her perching hand, and it drew away. “When can you take us?”

  “Where’ll you stay?”

  “I don’t know. Probably”—her chin tucked, and her voice all but lost itself—“I’ll have to get a job somehow, but probably a shelter, for a while.”

  Cold crept into him. That had never been the picture in his head. Or had he ever fully pictured Aubrey in another state? Getting Elliott back had been his only objective since meeting her. “No.”

  “Admit it—it’s safer than your house. I can be indefinitely anonymous. I never made national news, and state Constabularies hardly ever work together. That’s why you take people over the state line in the first place, right?”

  “Aubrey,” he said.

  “It’s the only thing left. You don’t plan to help me raise my son, do you? Put him through college? Because he is going to college.”

  “Aubrey.”

  “It’s time, Marcus.”

  “You don’t belong in some place with junkies and hookers and crazy people and … and … drunks.” She could go hungry. She could get sick, Elliott could get sick. Pneumonia hit you when you were worn out, Lee had told him once. Aubrey could get hurt, robbed, stripped by somebody who wanted her Wal-Mart sweater. Raped. He wasn’t taking her to Ohio.

  “So you have another plan, then?”

  Not yet. He had to build one. Soon. Now.

  Aubrey picked up the plate and ambled to the table. “Let’s eat my mangled eggs.”

  After breakfast, Marcus switched on the radio, and they cleaned the kitchen. A federally funded research group made national news with the “disconcerting” statistic that up to 52 percent of non-Christian Americans knew of—and still failed to report—someone practicing Christianity.