Convenient Lies

by Robin Patchen

  Samantha said, “Let me do some research. When do you need this done?”

  “Soon. Today.”

  “I need to get started. I’ll have to do some of it from the office.”

  “It’s Saturday. Will that be a problem?”

  “I have a key.” She pulled Rae up and hugged her tight. “I love you.”

  “I love you.”

  Samantha squeezed harder, and Rae held onto her friend for another moment before she forced herself to pull away.

  “I have to get back to the cabin.”

  “I know.” Samantha squeezed her hand. “I’ll call you when it’s done.”

  Fifty-Three

  Rae must’ve checked the time a hundred times that morning. Johnny fussed, finally ate a little around noon, then fussed an hour after lunch. Rae didn’t mind. All she wanted was to stare into those beautiful eyes and memorize them.

  If only he’d smile at her once before she abandoned him.

  Instead, he cried. The sound was precious.

  She’d called Samantha a few times, nestling Johnny in her left arm so she wouldn’t have to put him down. Samantha had the death certificate and had even forged a doctor’s name. “I made the signature illegible,” she said. “I pray your husband will trust the document. But won’t he want to bury his son?”

  "Probably." Rae had no idea how she would get around that, but she couldn’t think about it. Not yet.

  Samantha hadn’t been able to hack the hospital’s website or the state’s yet. So Rae waited and rocked her son and dreaded the moment she knew was coming.

  Johnny finally fell asleep. Much as she wanted him awake, he needed his rest. She laid him on the bed, then loaded the car with her suitcase. When she was finished, she set her phone to vibrate, lay in bed beside her perfect little boy, and cried herself to sleep.

  Her phone vibrated an hour later. The text from Sam simply read, It’s done. Shall I come there?

  She typed, No. Can you send Brady’s address? She considered her next move as she slipped from the bed and made her way into the living room.

  Sam answered. Just saw him at the station.

  The station. Right next to the bank. It was all too easy.

  Except that Rae had to go out. The bank hadn’t been open earlier when she’d visited Sam, but it would be open now, and she needed the evidence from her safe deposit box.

  But sweet Johnny needed his sleep. It was hard enough considering leaving him, but leaving him ill?

  So, what could she do?

  The answer seemed suddenly obvious. She dialed Caro’s cell phone. The girl answered on the second ring.

  “Hey, Rae. What’s up?”

  Rae could hear the sounds of what sounded like a party behind Caro’s voice. “Sounds like you’re busy.”

  “Nah. Just hanging out at Zio’s with Finn and Trent.”

  Apparently the boys had cleared up their little misunderstanding. If only all problems were so easily solved. “Could you watch Johnny for a little while? Maybe an hour. He’s sound asleep. The only problem is, I can’t pick you up. You’d need to get a ride.”

  “Omigosh, I’d love to babysit! Hey, Finn. Finn!” There was a pause before Caro continued, speaking to her boyfriend. “Hey, can you take me to Rae’s house, like, right now?”

  “Actually,” Rae said, “I’m in a cabin by the lake.”

  “Seriously? I wondered when I stopped by last night. I got a part, by the way.”

  “Oh, good.” A part in a play Rae would never get to see. It was the least of her worries, but the thought still made her tear up. “Anyway, if I send you the address—”

  “Yeah, Finn said it’s no problem. He’s just telling Trent where we’re going.”

  “Great. See you soon.”

  Rae hung up and texted the cabin’s address to Caro. The last thing she wanted to do was leave the baby, but at least she knew he’d be safe here. Just Brady, Sam, and now two teens knew where she was, and in just a short time, it wasn’t going to matter anyway.

  Caro showed up a few minutes later, waving to Finn as he drove away. She stepped inside as she told Rae about the part she got in the play—the queen. Apparently it wasn’t the lead role, but it was a good one.

  “I have more lines than the princess and the prince,” Caro said. “I know, ‘cause I counted. But don’t tell anyone, ‘cause that makes me seem sorta petty, right?”

  “Just excited.” Rae imagined Brady sitting in the auditorium, watching the play, her sweet Johnny in his arms.

  No, she wouldn’t think about that.

  Caro looked around the cabin. “Awesome place. How’s Johnny?”

  “He’s better. Thanks for doing this.”

  “Sure. Did you know there’s a police car out there?”

  “I saw it earlier.”

  “It’s not the quarterback,” Caro said.

  Rae almost smiled. “I don’t think he likes to be called that.”

  “I don’t know why. Who’s cooler than Tom Brady?”

  Rae fought to keep her tone light. “I know, right?”

  “So why are the cops stalking you. You break the law or something?”

  She shook her head. “Brady’s just paranoid. Everything’s fine.”

  Caro smirked and looked away. “I wish that were true.”

  Great. Teenager angst. She didn’t have time, but Caro looked so distressed. “What’s going on?”

  “Remember the other night when Finn was fighting with Trent? At the school?”

  Seemed like years ago, not days. She nodded.

  Caro settled in a barstool beside the island. “Well, he’d been acting weird anyway, even before that. I tried to find out what that conversation was about, but he wouldn’t tell me. It wasn’t nothing, though. You know? ‘Cause I heard Finn threaten to go to the cops, and Trent said he wouldn’t dare. And with my sister and my parents... I just can’t get pulled into anything illegal. I’ve been trying so hard not to end up like my parents, and I thought I found a nice church kid, but maybe I was wrong.” She rubbed her eyes and continued. “So today, he told me everything was fine and not to worry. We met Trent at Zio’s, and they seemed okay, but there’s something going on with Trent. I don’t like him.”

  Rae was too tired to follow the girl’s rambling. “Going on? Like?”

  “No clue. But it scares me, you know? What could Finn be doing?”

  All sorts of terrible things, but Rae didn’t voice that thought. She grabbed her purse and her keys from the kitchen island.

  Caro’s cell binged, and she looked at it. “Oh, Finn’s brother is coming home.” She read the text. “Nate just texted. He’s coming home for the weekend, and I have to go with my parents to Manchester. So I can’t pick you up later.”

  Rae paused at the door. “Nate Boyle?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  That was the best news Rae’d heard all day. He should be safe here.

  “You know Nate, right?” Caro walked to the door with her. “Finn said you guys went to high school together.”

  “Long time ago.”

  “So I guess I need a ride home later.”

  “No problem.” She imagined Brady could take the girl home when he picked up Johnny.

  Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked them back. She couldn't think about that. Not until it was done. “You have my number. Johnny should sleep until I get back. If he wakes up, call me, then you can rock him. Can you do that?”

  The girl’s eyes were wide as saucers. “I won’t let you down.”

  “And no company.”

  Caro smiled. “No parties. Got it.”

  Rae tried to return the grin but figured she’d failed when Caro said, “I’m just kidding. I promise to take good care of him.”

  Rae squeezed the girl’s arm. “I know you will.”

  After she pulled out of the driveway, she stopped beside the police car on the street. Before she could get out of her car, a young uniformed officer approached her window. She low
ered it. “Good morning, Officer.”

  “Ma’am.”

  “I left my infant inside with a babysitter.”

  “Detective Thomas thought there might be trouble.”

  “There still might be,” she said. “So please stay here and keep an eye on them. Okay?”

  He looked at the house, then back at her. “I’ll have to call the detective.”

  “While you’re at it, tell him I’m on my way to see him.”

  Fifty-Four

  Bienvenue. If Julien were less groggy, in less pain, and less eager to get where he was going, he might find irony in the fact that the sign marking the New Hampshire state line welcomed them in French.

  As it was, he had just enough energy to point and mumble, “Why French?” to Boyle.

  The man’s answer was a grunted, “Canadians.”

  That made sense, if nothing else did.

  Even after all that sleep, he was too groggy to respond. He leaned against the backseat door and willed the pain away.

  After they’d left Hector’s body the night before, he’d told Farah to drive to New Hampshire. Just a few hours away from his Rachel, and he couldn’t wait any longer.

  But Farah had defied him.

  He still couldn’t believe it.

  She pulled off the interstate just a few exits down and stopped at a pharmacy. “I’m going to get something to wrap your wound.”

  She returned with a full sack and started on her way again.

  “I thought you were going to wrap this.”

  “When we get where we’re going.”

  “We’re going to find Rachel.”

  She’d ignored him. Ignored him! If his shoulder hadn’t been throbbing, he might have broken his own rule about hitting women. As it was, he barely had the energy to keep from resting his head in the reporter’s lap.

  Julien had sat in the backseat to make sure Boyle wouldn’t try to escape or alert another car. Julien had considered putting him back in the trunk, but he needed the reporter alive, and he feared Boyle might bleed to death or suffocate if he spent too many hours in the confined space. Fortunately, Boyle seemed too tired and wounded to try anything.

  A few minutes later, Farah put on her blinker, and Julien looked at her destination.

  “We don’t need a hotel room for you to bandage me.”

  “I hate to tell you this,” Boyle said, “but you should probably do what she says.”

  He shot a look at the man beside him. “You keep your mouth closed, unless you want to ride in the trunk.”

  Boyle shrugged. “You’re about to bleed to death.” He looked at the back of Farah’s head. “Will you let me go, once he’s dead?”

  She maneuvered to a parking spot far from the street lights and met Julien’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “I’m sorry, monsieur, but he is right.”

  “You need a hospital,” Boyle said.

  “No.” Farah twisted to face him. “American doctors are required to notify the police when somebody has been shot. Is that not true?”

  Boyle shrugged, then winced. “Better arrested than dead.”

  Julien wanted to yell at them both to shut up, but it hurt to talk. The best he could muster was, “We need to get back on the road.”

  “Oui, monsieur. Soon.”

  “But Rae—”

  “You will not find her if you are dead. The reporter is right.” She took the keys from the ignition, grabbed her purse, and stepped out of the car. She bent and looked at him. “I will be right back. Don’t go anywhere.” Then she slammed the door.

  She’d never defied him before. His wound must look bad.

  Didn’t feel all that great. Throbbed, and he could still feel blood trickling down his chest.

  “A few inches south, and you’d already be a goner,” Boyle said.

  Julien didn’t want to think about that. Didn’t want to think about the fact that he’d shot his best friend. The only real friend he’d ever had, on his father’s payroll since grammar school.

  He and the reporter remained silent until Farah returned. She drove around the building. “I asked for a first floor room. This one should be private enough. Mr. Boyle, do you think you can help me—?”

  “I can walk,” Julien said. “And don’t think you’re going to get away with this defiance, Farah.”

  “I pray you’ll be well enough to punish me tomorrow.”

  Boyle chuckled. If Julien’s shoulder weren’t throbbing, he might’ve punched the guy.

  Julien led the way into the room. He feared he might collapse if he paused even to let Farah precede him. He sat on the closer of the two double beds while Boyle hobbled in, Farah behind him, Hector’s gun in one hand.

  “Please sit over there,” she said.

  Boyle collapsed on the bed farther from the door. The man was white as a sheet. Julien wondered if he looked that bad.

  Judging by the expression in Farah’s eyes when she turned to him, he did, perhaps worse. She handed the gun to Julien, stripped him of his shirt, and looked at the wounds—entrance and exit. At least the bullet wasn’t still in there. She poured some astringent on the bullet holes to clean them. Julien barely kept himself from crying out at the pain. Then she dressed both wounds.

  When she was finished, he insisted it was time to go.

  “No, monsieur.” She shook two pills out of a bottle and handed them to him with a glass of water. “They will help.”

  He swallowed them while Farah nodded to Boyle. “His turn.”

  The man was half asleep on the bed. Julien pointed the gun. “Sit up. I don’t feel like arguing with her.”

  Boyle obeyed.

  But she didn’t dress his wounds right away. Instead, she worked on tying him to the headboard.

  “What are you doing?” Julien asked.

  “Better to be safe.”

  Boyle sighed loudly but didn’t argue. He seemed resigned to it. Maybe he believed Julien would let him go if he behaved himself.

  Julien would keep the man alive until they found his wife, and then perhaps use him to teach her a lesson.

  When Boyle was tied to the bedpost, Farah grabbed the alcohol and cotton balls, and Julien dropped his gun and laid his head on the pillow. He figured he may as well rest while he had the chance.

  * * *

  He awakened covered with a thick blanket. Sunshine streamed through the glass.

  He sat up, nearly passed out with the wave of dizziness, and lay back down. Farah, who had been lying beside him, sat upright. “Please, try to move slowly, monsieur.” She stood and walked around to his side of the bed as Boyle stirred.

  Julien looked at the man. Farah had bandaged his head wound. He was still tied to the bed.

  He glanced at the clock, and his heart nearly stopped. “It’s almost noon.”

  “We were all tired.” She remained calm despite his anger.

  “There’s no way I could have slept that long. What did you give me?”

  “Tylenol.”

  “What kind of Tylenol?”

  Farah ignored the question as she shifted the blanket and checked his wounds. The bandages were bright red.

  “Still bleeding,” she said.

  And throbbing, but he didn’t say that. “If Rae is gone by the time I get there, you will pay.”

  She met his eyes, nodded, and grabbed fresh gauze. “If you had died, I would never have forgiven myself.”

  Twenty minutes later, Farah navigated back onto the highway while Julien checked Boyle’s phone. The boy, Finn, had texted multiple times that morning and continued to text. Julien just wanted to shut the kid up.

  Flying home today, he typed. Should arrive in an hour.

  The kid replied, but Julien didn’t have the energy to converse with a teenaged boy with girl troubles. He finally responded. Can’t talk. On the plane.

  That ought to shut him up.

  One more text came, a promise to meet his flight in Manchester. Julien tossed the phone to the floor. “Your brot
her is persistent.”

  “It’s a family characteristic.”

  By the time they exited the interstate, it was almost three o’clock. Despite the long night’s sleep, Julien could barely keep his eyes open.

  “You’re almost home,” he said to Boyle.

  “Not exactly how I pictured my next homecoming, accompanied by terrorists.”

  “I am not a terrorist.”

  The man shrugged. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

  Julien was regretting having let him live this long.

  “So, how much did Rae know about your real life when she married you?”

  Julien ignored the question.

  “Because if I know Rae, and I do—”

  “I think you should shut up.” Julien sat taller and peered into the forest surrounding the interstate. “Lots of places around here to hide a body.”

  “You’re going to have to kill me, Julien. I don’t know why you haven’t yet.”

  “I still have use for you.”

  Boyle blew out a short breath. “So, what do I have to lose?” After a short pause, he started again. “Rae can’t have known what you really did for a living. How did she find out?”

  Julien rested against the seat and closed his eyes, letting the latest wave of pain pass. When it did, he sighed. “I told her not to go through my files. Apparently, she did.”

  Boyle actually laughed. It died quickly. “You told her not to? And you thought she’d stay away?”

  He glared at the man.

  “You know nothing about Reagan.”

  “Reagan?”

  Boyle chuckled and shook his head. “Geez, you don’t even know her real name.”

  “Reagan Adams?”

  Boyle opened his mouth, then closed it. Then he smiled. “I mean, telling her there are secret files is like giving a bloodhound a scent. Her favorite thing is ferreting out secrets.”

  That information had come about thirteen months too late.

  A few minutes passed before Boyle said, “You killed your friend.”

  “He was not my friend.”

  “Aren’t you going to have to tell your father where Rae is? How can you protect her?”

  “You know nothing.”

  “I’ve done my homework since Rae called.”