Starting at A would be logical. Aubrey picked through pages crowded with small, vertical printing in all capitals. Some of the addresses featured no city or zip code, only a house number and street name. If Chuck and Belinda’s looked like that, she’d never be able to find it. Some, though, included rudimentary directions scribbled alongside them. These must be clients. “E SIDE VAN DYKE PAST 24.” “N SIDE 19 BT. SCHOENER & HAYS.” Wow. He couldn’t spell.
Around S, Aubrey concluded that she’d missed them, or they weren’t in the book after all, or she should have started with Z. The last thought proved correct. Her finger jumped on the page when it found them. Chuck and Belinda Vitale. They lived on Indian Trail. Why did that sound familiar? The directions in the margin indicated north and a little east … oh! Indian Trail. The abandoned house—Chuck and Belinda must be the clients who lived farther down that dirt road.
Such a God-sent situation. Chuck and Belinda lived on the near side of nowhere. Aubrey tried to retrace their route in her mind. The darkness and Marcus’s breakneck driving didn’t help her memory, but she knew which highway he’d stayed on for most of the drive, and she’d probably recognize the exit. She could do this.
She slid the key ring from the rack with one hand. With the other, she pressed the keys and knife together until they dug into her palm. Not a clink.
Bump. Indy stood at her hip.
The keys plummeted with a raining jingle, hit the rug with a clattering thump. Aubrey’s hand clapped over her gasp. She whirled to face the couch. Indy nudged her again. Maybe it wasn’t an old wives’ tale that dogs could smell a person’s feelings, and Indy somehow sensed her dry-mouthed adrenaline.
She crouched to retrieve the keys. Marcus’s hand twitched. His breathing didn’t change. Half a minute later, Aubrey dared to move, and the dog followed.
No note this time, not with a con-cop interview pressing in on his future. The impulsive, incriminating good-bye she’d left stuck to his fridge a week ago—what had he done with it? Her first escape loomed over her plans now, that desperate trade on which she’d nearly impaled her chance at freedom. But she wasn’t remaking a mistake. Certainty flowed from her fingers as she pulled out the address book once more and opened it to the V page. Now, where to put it that he couldn’t miss? She leaned it against the coffeemaker.
Jesus, I hope he’s not too mad tomorrow. And please take care of him. And Lee. And Elliott, and Karlyn and Jim and … She could finish the prayer now. The words wobbled, but Jesus wanted to hear them. And me.
She leaned down to leave a kiss on Indy’s black nose. “Bye.”
47
“We’ll get there when we get there,” Chuck said.
Marcus’s scowl only spiked his headache. He should have jogged the twenty miles. Or even walked.
“And that’s not going to get us there any faster.”
“What?”
“All your squirming. You’re worse than a worm on a hook.”
Well, a worm would get there faster than Chuck’s driving. His car crawled through the snow at forty miles per hour. He started coasting so far from the red lights that they turned green before he had to brake. You’d never know the guy was a lifelong Michigander. Sure, the snow was bad. It kept shifting between soft flakes and angry sleet, and the salt-truck drivers must be asleep like everybody else. But still. It was snow.
“She up and made off with your truck, huh?”
“Yeah.” Marcus’s thumb hit the window button. A gasp of icy air slid into the car.
The window slid back up. “No sense heating the outside,” Chuck said.
Marcus’s feet stirred. The air had to be nearing eighty-five degrees, and the persistent whiff of stale cigar smoke grated in his head. Soon he’d suffocate.
“Have to say, that girl’s got real guts. It’d almost be funny, if—” Chuck shrugged. “You know.”
“It’s not funny.” Even if everybody was safe, even if the Constabulary had never existed.
“I’m just saying, if it wasn’t almost five in the morning.”
Was it really …? It was. Marcus hadn’t looked at a clock before now, even when Chuck had yawned in his ear over the phone line. One fact had captured his brain: Aubrey had once again run off like some rebellious kid. With his truck this time. To rope others into danger, people who could be discovered and pushed inside a Constabulary car and erased from their life of freedom.
Lee wasn’t erased. He was going to get her back.
And he was going to stop Aubrey. She’d be with the Vitales less than a morning.
“Thanks,” he said to Chuck.
“Huh?”
“For coming.” At 5:00 a.m. in a snowstorm. Far from the road, a barn’s floodlight seemed caught in a swirling cloud. Chuck’s headlights lit a sudden squall.
“I was going to tell you it could wait until a decent hour, but Belinda said you don’t ask favors and it must be life and death, so …” Chuck shrugged, then glanced at Marcus. “Then I get here and find out all she did was borrow your truck, and she’s headed for our place anyway. Definitely could’ve waited.”
No, it couldn’t.
“Don’t see how you noticed it was gone in the first place. Weren’t you in bed?”
“I woke up,” Marcus said. The headache must have dragged a moan from his sleep, because Indy had been tongue-bathing his hand before he even opened his eyes. He still didn’t know what had pulled him up off the couch and into the kitchen. Not like he had a single pain pill in the house, despite Lee’s countless promises through the years that he couldn’t get addicted to Tylenol.
When they turned onto Indian Trail, Chuck seemed to forget that his car came with a gas pedal. At this rate, they’d reach his house around noon. A cat leaped into the road and dashed through the sleet and high-beam headlights. What had happened to the skinny striped thing with the convenient leather collar? Where was the chip now?
“I’m not really clear, Marcus … why’d she take off in the first place?”
Because she got an idea and skipped on ahead with it, as usual. “Doesn’t matter.”
“I say it does.”
He could say whatever he wanted.
“Look, you’re the one that called asking favors. If something’s going on here, I have a right to know.”
Marcus let Chuck hear his sigh. “She panicked. That’s all.”
“Why?”
“The Constabulary have a friend of mine. For questioning. If they—if they arrest, then …”
“Then they’ll come after you?”
“Not ‘come after.’” Unless they somehow caught on to his recent felony spree. “But they might come to the house. To ask about her.”
“Ask about her? Nobody knows she’s there.”
“Not Aubrey. My friend.”
Chuck braked, and the car’s back end veered right, then left.
“What’re you—”
“Stop sign.”
“Where?”
“Up there. Can’t see it yet, the blizzard’s hiding it, but it’s up there.”
Marcus didn’t bother with a response. Heat clung to him. He tugged off his gloves.
“Ice on the road now, under the snow. Real hazard.”
Belinda might be tucking her new houseguests into bed. That was the hazard.
“So,” Chuck said when they finally reached the stop sign. “That’d be a tough one, having to hide a baby with them at the door. I’ll make sure we have a plan, just in case. But we’ve got so many rooms and rooms inside rooms, even a real search would miss—”
“What?” Had he jumbled his words that badly?
“It was a good call, her coming out here.”
“Chuck, she’s going back with me.”
“Of course she’s not. You just said the Constabulary could be looking at you next.”
&
nbsp; “You won’t be safe.”
“And she will be, back at your place? Don’t be a fool, Marcus.”
No single situation provided safety for all of them, so he had to choose the lesser danger. This was about damage control. Triage, Lee would call it. Aubrey was already on the wanted list. He wasn’t going to expand it. The car crept forward, over a slight rise in the road, then down the gentle dip. Less than a mile to the house now.
“Look,” Chuck said. “If we were going to turn anyone in, we would’ve done it a week ago.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Something gleamed out in front of the car, to the left. Chrome, a bumper, jutting up from the ditch. “Stop.”
“What’s the—?”
“Stop!”
Marcus grabbed the door handle. He threw himself from the car while the tires were still sliding. His shoes skidded over snow-masked ice. The air snapped at his ears, his bare hands.
“Marcus, wait—”
“Aubrey!” His truck faced back the way they’d come, tilted on its side. The driver’s side. “Aubrey!”
He hurdled the narrow ditch and leaned on the hood. Despite the angle, the truck was wedged tightly enough to support his weight. The frozen frame stung his hands as he scrambled up onto the leaning back end, then over the passenger door to kneel beside it. He tested the handle. Locked. His face pushed against the window. Darkness filled the cab.
“Are they okay?” Chuck approached the ditch, hunched into his black ski coat.
“Move your car,” Marcus said. “Point the lights here.”
“First we call an ambulance. They might—”
“No.”
Chuck fished a cell phone from an inside coat pocket. “If they need a doctor—”
“No. You know what’ll happen.”
Sudden full knowledge entered Chuck’s eyes.
“Move the car.” Marcus bent down to the window again. “Aubrey!”
Why didn’t she answer, push the door open, pound the window? She had to be hurt. A listless wail drifted up to him. Elliott. If one of them did need medical help … Lee, how will I know what to do?
Chuck’s headlights washed him in a glare that throbbed across the top of his skull and behind his eyes. Most of the light was wasted on the underside of the truck, but a dim glow permeated the cab now. Marcus pressed against the cold window again. Elliott’s carrier hung securely, strapped to the seat and facing backward. Past him, Aubrey slouched against the crushed driver’s door. One arm draped the steering wheel. Her hair spread over her face, loose and wild, too lively for her unconscious form.
Chuck’s voice came from the lip of the ditch. “Locked?”
“And she’s knocked out.”
“I’ll get the crowbar. You can bust that window.”
“Could cut them.” But it was the only way to get inside.
“Can you see their faces?”
Marcus leaned down to the window. Move, Aubrey. Come on. But Chuck was right. The glass would fall into her hair, not her eyes. If Marcus moved her carefully, she shouldn’t be cut. The white plastic side of the baby carrier glowed in the cab’s dimness, obscuring Elliott. Shielding him.
Marcus straightened. “Crowbar.”
Chuck probably did try to hurry, but his steps were so cautious, all the way back to the car. Marcus should leap back over there and get the crowbar himself. No. Wait. Chuck crossed the icy road a little faster the second time. He reached the heavy tool out over the ditch to Marcus.
The window shattered with the crowbar’s first swing, a simple give, a moment of surrendering chime. Twinkling greenish fragments of glass showered the cab’s insides. Marcus lay across the side of the truck and reached through the hole.
“Don’t cut yourself,” Chuck said.
Great plan. His hand found the door lock and slid it as far as it would go. The passenger side always stuck a little. He withdrew his hand too fast, nearly raked it across a jagged bit of glass in the corner of the window frame. Then he gripped the door handle and leveraged all his body weight into a backward heave. The door was heavy but manageable.
“I’ll give you a hand.” Chuck jumped down into the ditch and hoisted himself up onto the other side.
Marcus leaned down into the cab and grasped the baby. Elliott was snug and safe, belted in and covered with a nest of sweaters. The back of Marcus’s hand strayed across Elliott’s face. Cold. His fingers slipped on the little buckle. If he dropped Elliott into all that glass… He stretched one hand under the baby’s back and curled his fingers. Then his other thumb pressed the center of the silver buckle. Weight settled into his hand. He stretched his arm to clear the side of the carrier, then drew upward. Elliott kicked, and Marcus’s arm strained. He cleared the door frame and sat up.
“I’ve got him,” Chuck said with outstretched arms. “But you can’t get her out by yourself.”
“Got to.” Marcus’s hands burned. He clenched them, held them against his coat. Then he gripped the door frame and lowered himself feet-first into the cab.
He braced his feet on the dashboard and the seat. He tried not to grab a handhold without inspecting it for glass. At the other end of the cab, a yard away, Aubrey lay in a sea of shards.
“Aubrey? Can you hear me?”
She could have a spine injury, a neck injury. Moving her could paralyze her. You were never supposed to move an unconscious person. But Marcus had no choice. He lifted her arm over his shoulders and shifted his weight to support both of them. She wasn’t heavy, just unwieldy. And cold.
“I’m getting you out,” he said, in case she could hear him. “I don’t think you’re bleeding anywhere. That’s good.”
“Marcus? She okay?”
“She’s cold. Is the baby cold? She’s really cold.”
Work faster! Come on, work faster. He raised her as smoothly as he could. Glass fragments trickled from her hair. He pressed his back against the seat, and a few pinpricks poked through his coat. He repositioned until one foot braced against the buckled driver’s door. He wedged the other between the steering wheel shaft and the dashboard. Okay. Good. Surer footing. He lifted Aubrey the rest of the way, tucked her against his chest and cradled her head. Supporting the neck was important.
“Think you can get her up here?”
“We’ve got to be careful,” Marcus said. “Her neck and her back and—”
“I’ll have to set the baby down. Hold on. I’ll put him in the car.”
Marcus waited because he had to. He couldn’t do this by himself, not with maximum safety for Aubrey. The cab was like a freezer. He sighed frost into the air.
Frost.
Aubrey’s breath made no frost.
“Aubrey?” He supported her head in the crook of his arm, the way she did with Elliott, and his fingers—two fingers, no thumb, a long-ago lesson from Lee—pressed under the point of her jawbone. There was a rhythm here, a rhythm of blood, of life. He had to find it. But she was still. Everywhere, even her neck, that artery you could feel easier than the others. Aubrey was still.
“No,” he said. “Aubrey. Where is it?”
His fingers moved closer to her throat, then farther from it, fumbled, pressed harder, yet she was still. No rhythm. No breath.
The truck rocked. Chuck was back. “Okay, hand her up and—”
“She’s not breathing.”
“What?”
Marcus gripped under her arms and lifted her through the open door. Her head flopped back. Her hair spilled across his coat sleeve. Chuck’s gloves brushed his hands, securing a hold.
“You got her?” Marcus said.
“Yeah, let go.”
As soon as her feet cleared the door, Marcus pulled himself up and out. Chuck had sprawled her onto the side of the truck and removed one of his gloves. His hand circled her wrist.
“You
’re right,” he whispered. “She’s—”
“Move.” Marcus struggled to remember. CPR wasn’t that hard. He tilted her head, lifted her chin. Airway. Breathing. And a C. It was for the chest compressions. Those were the most important, Lee had said. He found the point of Aubrey’s breastbone, laced his fingers above it, and pushed. One. Two. Three—
“Marcus.”
“Shut up.” Four. Five.
“Feel her skin. It’s been too long.”
Six. Seven. Eight.
“She must’ve hit her head. It must’ve been instant.”
“Shut up!” Nine. Ten.
“Even if we could get her pulse back, she hasn’t had oxygen. Are you hearing me? It’s been too long.”
Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Now breathe. He sealed his mouth over her stiff, icy lips. Come on, Aubrey. Wake up. Breathe. Move. His fingers wove back together, pushed against her stiff chest. One. Two. Three.
“We need to get the baby to my place,” Chuck said. “Come on.”
Four. Five. Six.
“Marcus.”
Seven.
“Marcus.”
Chuck’s arm blocked him, pushed him away. Marcus shoved back. Aubrey was not going to die. Arms clamped around him from behind, pinned his to his sides.
“Look,” Chuck said. “Look at her.”
She looked like Aubrey. Probably she heard everything they said and Chuck’s words terrified her, convinced her they’d leave her alone in the cold for the Constabulary to find. She lay trapped in sleep, hair fanned around her head, one arm stretched over the edge of the truck.
“She’s dead.” Chuck snapped the words close to his ear. “She’s dead.”
“No.” Marcus braced, prepared to throw Chuck over his back, off the truck, into the snow. “She isn’t.”
But he kept looking, and little things bled into him. Missing things. The breath, the rhythm. The always shifting creases in her forehead. The pink tinge in her cheeks that turned red when her words tumbled too fast. Her face held one color now, a color that wasn’t color. She was smooth, like plastic.
Seek and Hide: A Novel (Haven Seekers) Page 28