“How’s Ellie?” she said, hissing out a slow breath when Church peeled the johnnie away from her wound.
Church sighed. “She lost a lot of blood. Fractured skull. Severe concussion,” she said like she was reading off a grocery list. “They’re worried about brain damage.”
Listening to the commotion in the hall, Sabrina remembered when it had been her. The bright lights and the noise. All those frantic hands fighting to keep her here. To save her, when all she wanted to do was float away. She wished it was her this time too. She wished it was her instead of Ellie. Not because she wanted to die but because if Ellie did, she’d never forgive herself.
“Hey.” Church’s hand landed on her good shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “If she’s anything like her sister, she’s going to fight her way through,” she said, digging her finger into the tear the knife had made in her shirt, opening it even wider so she could assess the damage. “She’s going to be okay—they both will.” Church cleaned the stab wound on her shoulder, dabbing it with betadine-soaked gauze.
She nodded, smiling despite everything that’d happened over the last couple of hours. “You’re getting pretty good at that.”
“At what?” Church said distractedly as she gave Sabrina two quick jabs with a hypodermic needle.
“Pretending to care.”
Church laughed, pulling the wound closed with one hand while straddling the stapler over the gash with the other. “I’m a fast learner,” she said, right before she pulled the trigger.
Sabrina winced, her not-quite-numb flesh zinging. “How’d you find me?”
“Remember room service in Helena?” She pulled the trigger again, the staple shooting forward to anchor into the meat of her shoulder. “I ordered the entire menu and poured you a glass of orange juice?”
She remembered. She’d been sure it’d been poisoned. “I remember.”
“I put a tracker in it.” Church pinched. Pulled the trigger. “You’re welcome. And don’t worry, it’ll flush out of your system in another couple days.”
After a few moments, Sabrina asked another question. “Where will you go?”
“If I told you that, I’d have to kill you, Kitten,” she answered, repeating the pinch-and-shoot process as she followed the line of her wound.
Sabrina thought of the man she’d called Jared. The man who was her brother, if not in blood than in shared experience. “Back to your family?”
Church paused, pressing the stapler into her shoulder. “That’s where you and I differ, Kitten.” She pulled the trigger again, setting the staple deep into her shoulder. “I don’t have a family to go back to.”
Sabrina breathed through the pain, eyes glued on the screen in front of her. The banner on the bottom of it read LIVE: SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA. Above it, a small group of men in expensive suits gathered around each other, shaking hands and clapping shoulders on the steps of the capitol building, pausing for the flash bulbs before disappearing inside. “You can always—”
One of those men was Ben.
Sabrina focused in on the words scrolling across the bottom of the screen, trying to make sense of what she was seeing.
Senatorial candidate Benjamin Shaw met with a committee to discuss his potential appointment to the California Senate by Governor …
The stapling had stopped but the head of the gun was still pressed into her shoulder. She didn’t have to see Church’s face to know she’d just seen the same thing. “Did you know?”
Church pulled the trigger a final time. “Did I know what?” she said, setting the stapler down. “That he sold his soul to his father to save everyone you’ve ever loved?” She wiped the wound with betadine a final time before covering it with gauze. “Yes.”
“He told you not to tell me, didn’t he?” Sabrina said, looking at Church over her shoulder.
“Yes.” Church anchored the gauze in place with a length of surgical tape, smoothing it out with her thumbs before meeting her gaze. “There’re some military types snooping around. Asking why the FBI didn’t contact them before poking around in their backyard,” she said, standing. She reached down, retrieving the paper bag from the floor before setting it on the bed. “Just to be safe, I think you should take the long way home.”
Eighty-nine
Easing her jacket over the gauze padding on her shoulder, Sabrina winced a bit as she zipped it up over the ballistics tank. Her shirt lay in a tattered mess on the floor.
Tucked into the tank was the chain Michael gave her. The key hanging from it would get her home. She cast a final look at the television. The story about Ben’s pending senatorial appointment had been replaced by an image of Detective Santos standing in front of the hospital. Mark Alvarez stood next to him, hands dug into the front pockets of his Dockers, face tilted toward the sidewalk. Both of them looked uncomfortable, but Alvarez wore an expression of dazed panic that said he knew his life was about to change. When news broke about Manny Robles and his delusion of being the “lost” Vega child, someone would ferret out what really happened to Father Francisco Vega’s illegitimate sons. Shine a spotlight on Paul Vega’s life and the troubled childhood of Mark Alvarez, aka Nulo.
She understood exactly how poor Alvarez felt.
The phone in her pocket let out a buzz. A text from Church: Hospital surveillance is down for the next fifteen.
She looked inside the bag Church left behind. A baseball cap and two medication bottles. Tramadol and 800mg Ibuprofen—one for pain, the other for swelling—and what looked like a turkey sandwich with a note taped to it.
Don’t worry, it’s not poisoned.
C
Under the sandwich was a pair of worn journals. She lifted them out, reading the names written in neat, heavy block letters across their fronts. Melissa. Frankie.
Her phone buzzed again: Shake a leg, Kitten.
Returning the journals to the bag, she tucked her phone away before slipping the hat over her head. Tugging the bill of it low over her brow, she left the curtained room. Formulating an escape route on the fly, she headed for the elevator. The emergency room entrance was a zoo, clogged with reporters and even more uniforms. Better to go up and over. She’d use the sky bridge, cross to a different tower and ride back down before exiting the hospital through the back. She’d catch a bus to the bank and the safety deposit box Michael—
The elevator dinged a split second before the doors slid open and she slipped in, keeping her face tipped down as she pressed the button for the fourth floor. The doors began to close but bounced back when someone stuck their hand into the car. She didn’t have to look up to know who it was.
“The doctors are cautiously optimistic about Ellie’s recovery,” Val said quietly. “They told me the FBI agent who brought her in saved her life, so … thank you.”
“Ellie’s a fighter.” She nodded, eyes stuck on the button panel in front of her, remembering what Church said earlier. “Like her sister.”
Val was quiet for a moment. “You’re leaving,” she said, her voice broken and sharp.
Sabrina nodded her head, the movement of it drawing a small sound from the back of Val’s throat.
“Riley dropped out of college.” Val looked at her, pleading. “She’s getting ready to take the SFPD entrance exam. She feels like she’s supposed to follow in your footsteps,” she said, her tone laced with panic, trying to find a way to make her stay. “Like it’s her job to finish what you started now that you’re … gone. Maybe if she knew that you—”
“No.” She shook her head, even though the thought of Riley as a cop filled her with a dizzying mix of anxiety and pride. “She can’t know. No one can know,” she said, finally raising her gaze to meet her friend’s. “You have to forget about me. Move on. All of you.”
Val nodded and looked away, rubbing a gentle hand over her belly while she let out a slow breath. “I know.” When she looked ba
ck at her, there were tears in her eyes. “Are you happy?”
She thought of the house she shared with Michael. Of the kids running through the woods. Grilled cheese and pancakes. Her dog sunning herself on the front porch. “Yes,” she whispered and she was.
The elevator dinged, signaling their arrival to the fourth floor.
She reached down, finding her friend’s hand dangling between them. “Thank you, for saving me. For fighting for me, even when I didn’t want you to,” she said, giving Val’s hand a gentle squeeze.
Val smiled through her tears. “Anytime.”
When the elevator doors slid open, Sabrina exited alone.
ninety
Yaak, Montana
October 2016
“Here you go, miss …”
The truck slowed, its vintage engine easing from growl to purr while it rolled into the stop. He pulled over onto the soft shoulder of the road, mindful not to jostle the young woman who rode in the truck bed. He’d picked her up just outside of Eastport, walking along the 95 like she’d been out for a Sunday stroll instead of stranded in the middle of nowhere. She hadn’t stuck out her thumb or flagged him down, but he pulled over anyway and asked where she was headed.
“South,” she’d said, swinging a long leg over the back of his truck and settling into the bed of it.
“Miss …” He hesitated before reaching for her through the truck’s rear sliding window, hand hovering just above her shoulder. He didn’t want to touch her. He’d made that mistake about a hundred miles back, tapping her on her shoulder when he pulled over in Moyie Springs for gas, to tell her this was as far as he’d be willing to take her. She’d damn near snapped his hand off at the wrist for his trouble.
She’d apologized by filling both gas tanks on his Ford—the primary and the auxiliary—and offered him five hundred dollars if he’d take her as far as Yaak. He’d been on his way to Troy but he’d seen the wad of cash she had on her when she paid for his gas, so he figured she was good for it. He also figured driving a few hours out of his way’d be a hell of a lot easier than trying to take it off her.
She’d been sleeping since they passed the Golden Nugget about fifty miles back. Or at least he thought she was sleeping. She wasn’t much of a talker and his offer for her to ride up front with him had been met with nothing more than a slight narrowing of her eyes, shadowed by the brim of her battered ball cap and a polite but firm no thank you.
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his chin, the stubble that covered it rasping with each pass of his palm. The nervous gesture sent a twinge through his abused wrist, reminding him of what she’d told him while he cradled his wrist and she pumped his gas. I don’t like being touched.
He decided to try one more time without the touching, more willing to waste a few more minutes trying to wake her than he was willing to risk her getting hold of him again. “Miss, you’re home now,” he told her, leaning in just a bit so that his voice carried through the narrow opening of the window.
Like home was a magic word, she stirred, the movement pushing back the hem of her jacket, exposing the pistol on her hip. He’d caught sight of it when she’d first climbed into the bed of his truck. Factoring in the olive drab cargos and plain black shirt along with the heavy-soled hiking boots and mannish haircut, he figured her for another Montana Militia wannabe.
That’d changed back in Moyie Springs.
He sat back in his seat, making sure his hands were in plain view, watching her from the relative safety of the rearview. Reaching into the long pocket of her cargos, she produced a wad of cash as fat as his fist. He watched her peel off the promised five hundreds plus a few more—nearly double what she’d promised him. Reaching through the window, she tapped him on the shoulder with the offered bills.
He turned slightly, reaching over his shoulder to take the offered cash, a nervous grin on his face. “I thank you kindly.” He gave the stack of bills that connected them a tug but she didn’t let go, forcing him to meet her gaze.
“Did you give me a ride?” she said quietly, snagging him with a pair of hazel eyes that didn’t seem to belong in the face that carried them.
He thought about the gun strapped to her hip and the fact that he believed with 100 percent certainty she knew how to use it. “No, ma’am. Picked up a drifter just over the border, but I dropped him at the Nugget so he could catch on with one of the logging camps round here. Don’t believe he mentioned which one.”
She finally gave him a smile, just a ghost of one really—gone in an instant as it coasted across her face. She abruptly released the money into his hand, the jerk of it sending a twinge up his wrist.
“Drive safe,” she said, shouldering her backpack before swinging a leg over the side of his truck to climb out. He listened to the sound of her boots crunching in the soft gravel of the shoulder, watching as she walked away.
Disappearing into the trees, like she’d never been.
Ninety-one
Kootenai Canyon, Montana
She’d been gone for forty-two days and they’d settled into a comfortable rhythm without her. He made breakfast every morning before Miss Ettie took the kids upstairs. It was fall and much to their disappointment, that meant homeschool was back in session.
Lunch was usually spent in the field, mending fences or driving their small herd of cattle into the lower pastures for the coming winter. Dunn was a fast learner and even more importantly, game. He seemed as determined to stave off the boredom of isolation as Michael was.
Dinner was a quiet affair, the evening usually ending with him and Dunn doing dishes before he headed out to the barn to listen to the HAM radio spit static until he was ready to burn the whole place to the ground. He wasn’t sure when he’d come to the conclusion that she wasn’t coming back. He only knew that it hurt. He imagined that Phillip Song had made good on his threat to offer her a way home and she’d taken it. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to take off the ring she’d put on his finger. He was pretty sure that would hurt worse than her actual leaving.
“Give me two,” Dunn said, peeling a pair of cards from his hand before tossing them onto the tiny table between them. Michael dealt him the cards and watched while he tucked them into his hand, eyes narrowed, mouth quirked just a bit at the corner. They’d played enough cards for him to know it meant Dunn didn’t have shit.
“We gonna ride out to 5J tomorrow, round up the last couple head?” Dunn said while rearranging his cards. Another indicator his hand was busted.
Surprisingly, he and Dunn hadn’t killed each other yet. All things considered, he figured that was a good thing. Neither one of them had broached the subject of how Dunn had managed to remove his chip since the day he turned up in his kitchen. He didn’t seem in a great hurry to share, beyond making sure he knew there would be a price to be paid for the how-to. For his part, Michael wasn’t in any hurry to know how he did it.
Without Sabrina, it didn’t really matter.
“Yeah,” he said, waiting for his opponent to fold. “We’ve got a couple of first-year heifers out there. I don’t want them—”
Across from him, Dunn went stiff a split second before Avasa picked up her head, a quiet growl rumbling in her chest. “Company,” Dunn said, gaze aimed over his shoulder, cards spilled, face up, across the table.
Michael turned to see a figure standing on the bridge, watching them. It was dusk, the sun just beginning to slip behind the surrounding cliffs. All he caught in the gathering dark was a pair of cargos. Ball cap pulled low. Gun bulge under the jacket.
“Friend of yours?” Dunn said behind him, tone casual and calm.
“No,” he said, even though his heart stopped and stuttered in his chest. “Go get—”
The dog shot off the porch like a bullet. Head low, legs moving so fast they became a blur, streaking across the yellowing grass. She let out a bark and the figure dropped the backpack a mome
nt before it hunkered down to receive the dog with open arms.
They went down together, Avasa’s front paws planted firmly, pinning their visitor to the bridge beneath them, her tail whipping so hard and fast her back end swung with it, nearly knocking her over with every pass.
“Well, the dog seems to be friendly with whoever it is,” Dunn said behind him, the words delivered over the soft scraping of his chair along the floorboards of the porch. A few second later, Michael heard the screen door bang shut behind him.
As soon as Dunn was gone, Michael moved. Down the porch steps and across the lawn, gaining speed with each step until he was running. Stopping short, he stood at the lip of the bridge, hands moving to the front pockets of his jeans, watching Avasa greet her mistress.
The commotion with the dog knocked her hat off her head to reveal a dyed head of hair almost as short as his. She was thin again, making him wonder where she’d been. What happened to her. He wanted to ask but didn’t. There was plenty of time for that, now that she was home.
–––––
Seeing his boots, Sabrina nudged Avasa to the side, whispering a short command that held the dog quivering but still. She ran a hand over her flank, still whispering, the dull glint of her wedding band catching the dying sun with each pass. He stepped closer, until he was standing over the pair of them.
“You hungry?” His voice sounded rough, like his throat was lined with sandpaper. He cleared it. “Miss Ettie made a chicken gumbo and I think there’s a few—”
“I just dragged myself to hell and gone”—Sabrina stood slowly, eyes narrowed—“and all you have to offer me is leftover gumbo?”
“It’s good gumbo.”
“I’m sure it is,” she said. “But I don’t want it.”
“What do you want, Sabrina?” The words sounded heavier. What he was asking her had nothing to do with food.
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