Seek and Hide: A Novel (Haven Seekers)

by Amanda G. Stevens

  “It’s dirty. And a little old. But the crack’s mostly under the rug. And you could scrub the floor.”

  Penny’s veined hands perched below the waistband of her cotton pants. “Scrub the floor? On my hands and knees like a spring chicken?”

  “I didn’t mean you, you. I meant anybody could scrub the floor.”

  “You see anybody around here besides me? Because if you do, I wish you’d point them out.”

  “Penny. I won’t tear this stuff up. There’s nothing wrong with it.” And he’d taken enough money from her for ridiculous jobs that anybody could do.

  “Then I’ll find me someone who wants to work.”

  “That’s—”

  She marched to the kitchen, and Marcus followed. He grabbed the phone book before she could start to paw through it.

  “Penny.”

  Her hands planted on her hips again. Her outward-poking elbows created triangles of space. “Give me that book, young man.”

  “I’ve got some grout coating in my truck. I’ll leave it for you. It’ll make the grout lines white again.”

  “But who’s going to do it?”

  “Anybody. Call Keith. He can have it done in half an hour. Then after four or five hours, he sponges off the extra stuff. That’s all.”

  “And when do you expect me to drag him over here to do it? He’s got a wife and two kids and his very own life.”

  Well, he still reserved time to throw a party every few months, to throw together a basketball game every few weeks. “He won’t mind.”

  Penny folded her arms. “How much will you charge me? Never mind, I don’t care how much, just do it.”

  Marcus captured the half-escaped sigh that had built throughout this day of giving estimates, putting up drywall, downing coffee, and searching for what to say to Lee.

  “You honestly think Keith’s going to drop everything to whiten tiles for a little old lady?”

  “You’re family.”

  The arms unfolded and drifted to rest at her sides, gradual as feathers. “You always say that word like it trumps all the rest.”

  The remainder of the sigh slipped out, strong enough for Penny to hear it.

  “I’d like my yellow pages back now.”

  “I’ll do it,” he said.

  “When do you have an opening?”

  “Now.”

  Penny’s mouth wrinkled upward in victory. “In that case, I’m making coffee.”

  Two mugs and forty minutes later, he squeezed the thin white goop into the last grout line. It was after 7:00 by the time he stopped Penny from trying to pay him, returned her grateful hug, and walked with her out to his truck.

  “I’ll sponge off the extra stuff tomorrow,” he said, one hand on the door handle.

  “Sounds peachy.”

  He opened the door but stopped with one foot up in the cab. He stepped back down. “What did they do? Secretly?”

  Penny frowned up at him. “What did who do?”

  “Whoever started this, taking freedom. Before I was old enough to know.”

  Her bony finger poked toward his truck and traced the outline of the side mirror. “It wasn’t really any one thing. It was lots of things, all packed together, over lots of time. Things the courts decided, things the papers and the TV and the radio all said about certain people. Laws that got passed with little hidden things inside.”

  Marcus waited for explanations, for details, for anything else. She stood next to his truck and fingered the door trim. Then she turned back to face him.

  “Do you know, it used to be that churches didn’t pay taxes? And it used to be that there weren’t any government workers—what are they called, monitors?—the ones that churches report to. It used to be, those jobs didn’t even exist. See, there’s perks for getting old. You know things. Thirty-two-year-olds don’t realize how different the country was when they were in kindergarten.”

  “What about—”

  “Now, listen here, I think I know why you’re asking all this. But there’s not an abracadabra to stop them, Marcus. There’s no stopping them, not anymore, no getting the freedom back. There’s only …” She gave a faint chuckle. “Living the best life you can in the time you’re set to live it.”

  “No,” he said. “That’s not all life is.”

  “Now, young man, one thing I won’t listen to is the evangelical tripe. I lived with it from my Roy for a lot of years, and I’ll tell you what I told him. When I get up there, God will ask if I loved my husband and my children, and if I tried to help people that needed it, and I’ll say yes.”

  “That’s not what God’s going to ask.”

  “Come back tomorrow, young man, and finish my floor.”

  “Penny—”

  “Did that sound like a suggestion? Because it sure wasn’t one.”

  Marcus got into his truck and rolled down the window. “Tomorrow, we’re talking about this.”

  “Nope. Subject closed for me about forty-five years ago.”

  She waved as he backed out of the driveway. While he drove, he listened to his voicemails.

  “Hey, Marcus, it’s Clay, just checking up on you.” Clay’s tone held no real caution, despite the heightened risk of recordings. At least he was vague.

  Keith’s voice was three times louder. Marcus held the phone away from his ear. “Hey, Brenner, some of us are hitting the gym court in about an hour, could use you if you’re free. Don’t plan to play too long, text me back or just show up.”

  Janelle’s voice came last, full of forced cheer anybody would suspect. “Working on inventory here at the store, thought I’d catch up with you to pass the time, but you must be working too. Now don’t ignore this message too long. I get obnoxious when I’m ignored. Talk to you soon, bye.”

  Marcus deleted the voicemails and signaled for the next turn. Straight ahead would take him home. Left would take him to Lee. The yellow arrow turned to solid red. He braked, and Vertigo slid forward on the seat beside him, then dropped to the floor.

  Lee didn’t want this rift to last. The stash in his refrigerator was her way of telling him. She knew words, but she didn’t always use them. Soup and lasagna and casseroles and pie were a language as clear as the German shepherd puppy she’d presented to him three years ago, already named. Indutiae. Truce. They’d both needed one, after what had been said. Shouted, in his case.

  “You want to keep both my friendship and your new righteousness. I need to accept this faith or my willful rebellion will taint you.”

  “All your perfect words don’t make you right! You need to accept it so you don’t go to hell!”

  They needed a truce now, too.

  The oncoming cars cleared. His truck forged ahead through traffic and dirty slush.

  Lee talked when she was ready. He couldn’t push her. But he had to, didn’t he? How could he be sure what she needed?

  By the time he plodded up her wet, salt-spattered walkway, Marcus’s whole body clenched—neck, shoulders, hands, gut. He rapped on her door, too hard. A minute passed, another one, but he hadn’t misunderstood. Lee wanted a mending.

  Her eyes seemed to find his before the door opened.

  “I … came to …” Well, to fix things, obviously. “How are you?”

  “Fine,” she said.

  “That’s … good.”

  The quiet owned no warmth, no ease, nothing at all. It was dry and unattached, a dead branch between them.

  “How was your day? At the hospital?”

  “Fine.”

  “I had the tuna-noodle thing for dinner, last night. It was good.”

  Lee said nothing.

  “Thanks,” he said. “For bringing it—all of it.”

  “No trouble.”

  “I brought—” He raised Vertigo from his side, held it out.


  Lee’s gaze flicked over the movie, then cast to one side.

  “But I … first, we’ve got to …talk.”

  She met his eyes again. “Yes, we do.”

  He shadowed her into the living room. She sat on the edge of the couch. Her jean-clad knees pressed together, and her hands rested on her thigh, one covering the other. Marcus half lowered himself to the stuffed chair before his legs pushed him back up.

  “I,” he said. She waited, of course, but the old, shared openness was sealed shut. He searched for a seam. “Well, I …”

  “I understand that my actions last night were …”

  When had Lee ever lost her words?

  “I may have permanently damaged our friendship.”

  He opened his mouth to say no. Of course she hadn’t. She couldn’t. His pacing slowed as a stinging heat crept into his face.

  “Marcus?”

  “No. You didn’t … damage. I—I mean …” Words broke against the ache, but he had to tell Lee that he forgave her, because he did. And he’d had a part in this too, trampling into her space.

  If only he could hold her. She’d know, then, and he wouldn’t have to talk. But she wouldn’t let him hold her. Maybe ever.

  “Lee … we’re okay. Always.”

  She glanced up at him, ducked her head. The weave of her fingers loosened a little. “Thank you.”

  He paced some more, back and forth in front of her. He should say something.

  “Marcus, to move forward, I need you to agree to certain parameters.”

  One hand gripped his neck. “Parameters?”

  Stillness wrapped around Lee till her breathing seemed invisible. “Don’t ever revisit that subject. Ever.”

  “What if you need to talk?”

  “I am a capable judge of what requires discussion, and of what doesn’t.”

  “Lee.”

  “Are you refusing the terms?”

  His feet were going to eat a furrow in her plush carpet. “Terms? Friendship’s not a contract.”

  “I’m willing to discuss friendship metaphors at length, after this is resolved.”

  “And that’s the only way it gets resolved? You squash it all down and we pretend none of it happened.”

  Lee seemed to shrink into the chair. Her voice barely came. “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “I don’t want to discuss … any of it.” Her knuckles had gone white.

  “I have to know, Lee. If there’s any—”

  The doorbell’s two-tone interruption lingered in the air around them. Lee flashed to her feet and crossed the room. She parted two slats of the window blind, turned back toward him.

  “It’s the Constabulary.”

  43

  No.

  “The last patient on my shift was Elliott’s foster mother.”

  “What?”

  “She studied me, more than casually. I intended to tell you.”

  Marcus walled her from the front door.

  “Marcus, move.”

  “No. Run. Or hide.” Something. Anything but opening that door, anything but those agents slamming Lee’s face, Lee’s body, against the brick of her house.

  “If you’re reckless right now, you will worsen this.”

  Their hands collided, both reaching for the doorknob. Every shift of Lee’s body slowed in front of his eyes, as if time struggled uphill. She had to escape them, now, while she still stood here able to escape.

  “Wait out of sight,” she whispered. “Appearances are vital.”

  “Appearances don’t mean crap, they’re going to—”

  “You’ll behave like a guardian, as if you know I’m guilty. They’ll find a way to use that.”

  The doorbell chimed again.

  “Step away. Please.”

  Marcus peeled himself away from the door. He backed into the hallway. The deadbolt slid and clicked. He pressed his body into a shadow. Sunlight reached halfway into the hall when Lee opened the door.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Lee Vaughn?”

  Marcus’s fingers dug into his palms. Jason.

  “Yes,” Lee said. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m starting to think so. Agent Mayweather, MPC. What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a nurse.”

  “Not a social worker?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Marcus shifted across the hallway. The door still blocked him from Jason’s sight, but no longer blocked Lee from his. Her hands hung at her sides with the ease of innocence.

  “I’d like to know where you were four mornings ago,” Jason said.

  “Sir, I would like to know the purpose of your presence here.”

  “You already know that, don’t you, Ms. Vaughn?”

  Marcus didn’t need to see Jason to know. He only needed to see Lee’s small step backward. This man had pushed into her space, had threatened the deep places inside her that cringed whenever a person crowded too close. She would never retreat an inch otherwise.

  Marcus rushed forward.

  This was the Jason that Pamela had described—pride in the uniform, purpose in the badge on his chest, the sidearm. His blue eyes darted over Lee’s shoulder and froze. “Marcus Brenner. I knew that pickup looked familiar.”

  “What’s going on?” Marcus said.

  “Why aren’t you asking your girlfriend?”

  “I asked you.”

  Jason’s gaze retargeted Lee. “So? Four mornings ago?”

  “I’m still awaiting an explanation,” she said.

  “Ms. Vaughn, you can simplify this and answer the questions, or you can get stubborn, and I’ll take you in for questioning at the office.”

  “Are you implying that I’m a criminal suspect?”

  The last two words knifed into Marcus’s mask of ignorance. Come on, say something convincing. “That’s ridiculous. A suspect for what?”

  “I’ll get the truth here one way or the other,” Jason said to Lee, as if Marcus weren’t standing there. “You get to choose how I do that.”

  “All right. I choose to call my lawyer.”

  What?

  “That didn’t take long.” But Jason’s tone reflected no note of smugness. If anything, that was frustration.

  “You’ll find that I’m aware of my rights, sir,” Lee said.

  “Including your right to hair dye.”

  Jason’s finger brushed a glossy black strand that framed her face. Marcus’s arm shot up and knocked the hand aside.

  “Marcus.” Lee’s eyes begged him to retreat.

  No way. Not again.

  Already only feet away, Jason shrank the gap to inches. “You so much as breathe on me, and I’ll arrest you for assault on a state officer.”

  Breathe on him? Marcus would break his nose. Or maybe his eye socket—longer recovery time.

  “Marcus.”

  Shut up, Lee. She stood like iron beside him but wasn’t strong enough to stop this. It wasn’t her job to stop this. It was his.

  “Marcus, think.” She didn’t look at him. Each syllable dropped passionless into the air. “Go home. Please.”

  No. No. No.

  “You’re not under arrest, Ms. Vaughn,” Jason said.

  “All right.”

  “But you do have to come with me for now.”

  She nodded. “May I get my purse?”

  “Sure.”

  Marcus ground his teeth for the entire minute she took before returning, the entire minute Jason stood on her porch, close enough to knock cold with one punch. When he thought his jaw would crack, Lee emerged with her purse over one shoulder.

  She arched her eyebrows, nodded to one side. That’s right, Lee, I do fill the doorway. When he didn’t move, she edged past
him. Their shoulders brushed. He pressed his arms to his sides so they wouldn’t scoop her off her feet and carry her somewhere safe.

  She stepped from the porch toward the unmarked car, and Marcus’s feet surged forward, too. Her hand, still at her side, opened toward him. Let me go, Marcus. You must.

  No.

  But his feet held their ground on the lowest porch step, even as Lee’s head ducked into the car and her body bent inside and disappeared behind the door that Jason almost slammed. Even as the car took her away.

  His fists trembled. His brain tried to tell him something, fought against everything he wanted to do right now. Screamed at him to think for once in his life. Think and save Lee. Think because he couldn’t pull her into a shelter of himself. Couldn’t beat the claws of this threat until they lost their grip.

  Think.

  She’d asked him to go home. He trudged to his truck and began the drive, but not because of her request. Because when it came to saving Lee, he was still powerless.

  44

  The back door crashed open, and every big and little fear of the last two weeks swooped down on Aubrey and sank in its talons. The Constabulary was finally here. Never mind Indy’s pricking ears that recognized the engine of Marcus’s truck as it pulled into the driveway, never mind the key in the lock seconds before the crash. No one but the Constabulary would drive a door into a wall more loudly than gunfire, and here she sat on Marcus’s couch with an open Bible on her lap.

  She snatched her startled, screaming baby from the couch and forgot for a moment that they’d already heard him. She dashed toward the front of the house as if they might not have it surrounded. Run! Don’t think, run!

  Before she could get farther, Marcus burst into the living room and tore through it like a massive tornado. He didn’t seem to see his dog or his houseguests. He arrived and exited in the same breath. Now he was in his bedroom, now hurtling down the hall.

  Aubrey’s mind caught up with her senses and muzzled the terror. She rubbed Elliott’s back, squatted to pick up the fallen Bible, smoothed its cover and set it on the end table. She walked through the kitchen. The door still stood open. She shut it gently and fingered the drywall edges of the small, round crater. Marcus’s force had hammered the doorknob into the wall.