Don't Turn Around

by Jessica Barry

  Cait forced herself to let this go. “I’m sorry I betrayed your trust.” She shoved the recorder toward her. “Here. Take it. I don’t need it.”

  Rebecca stared at her for a hard minute. “Are you still going to write the article?”

  Cait shook her head. “God, no. Of course not.”

  “And you’ll still drive me to Albuquerque?”

  Cait nodded. “If you’ll let me.”

  Rebecca took the tape recorder, tossed it on the ground, and stamped on it until it broke, and then she wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands and started walking back toward the Jeep. Cait hurried to catch up with her. “I really am sorry, Rebecca. I swear, if I’d known—”

  Rebecca held up a hand to stop her. “Let’s just get back on the road, okay? We’ve already lost too much time tonight. I can’t afford any more delays.”

  The two women climbed into the Jeep without another word and were soon back on the road, heading west.

  Patrick

  Patrick sat in the greenroom of a local TV station, waiting for the man with the clipboard to wave him through to the set. It was his third interview in as many days, and he had reached the point where he’d become his own mimic. He felt disembodied from the sound of his own voice, and the words that came out of his mouth felt foreign and strange, like he was listening to them on the radio rather than speaking them himself.

  It had been a week since they’d learned the baby was sick, and he hadn’t slept longer than a couple of hours.

  He hadn’t slept the previous night or the night before that. Instead, he had lain awake in the bed he shared with Rebecca, listening to her lying awake next to him like a pillar of stone, and he’d silently prayed to God. Give me strength, he pleaded. Show me the way.

  He knew that if he prayed hard enough, He would give him what he needed. He always had.

  There were so many ways in which he was blessed, even if sometimes he found it hard to remember. There were days when, striding across a mud-soaked field to address a half-dozen bored-looking farmers, or preparing for an interview—because he still had to do his day job, at least for the time being—he felt God’s warm light wane a little. But then he remembered all the ways in which he’d been shown grace, and the light shone on him again.

  It had always shone on him, though he hadn’t always been able to identify it for what it was. When he was a kid, his mother had taken him to church every Sunday, but his palms would itch as soon as he set foot inside the building, all the way through the pastor’s sermon until the service was over and he was allowed to go play in the parking lot with the other kids while his mother socialized. She’d always tsk when she came to tell him it was time to leave, taking in his rumpled shirt and grass-stained pants. “You have no respect,” she’d tell him as he buckled himself into the backseat. She didn’t like him to ride up front with her, didn’t think it was proper. He’d lower his eyes and apologize, but he never really meant it because he knew that as soon as they got home, she’d make him a cold glass of chocolate milk and sit him down in front of the television and the whole thing would be forgotten until next Sunday.

  He hadn’t known what it was during school, either, when his teachers used words like “gifted” and “brilliant” to describe him. He hadn’t needed to work hard: his brain was like some kind of low-maintenance, well-oiled machine living inside his skull. After he aced the SATs, one of his teachers suggested that he might be able to get a scholarship, and helped him apply to colleges with glossy brochures featuring pictures of lush green spaces and smiling, white-toothed students clutching notebooks. After the acceptance letters came in the mail, his mother had been proud but distant, and had treated him more like a visiting dignitary who happened to be staying with her than her own son. He’d understood, in a way. He was the first person from his family to go to college, and the first person to leave his hometown since they’d settled there four generations ago. He didn’t belong to her anymore: he belonged to something bigger that she didn’t understand, a world she respected and feared in equal measure.

  He’d chosen to move to the West Coast, thinking it would somehow be more familiar and forgiving than the East Coast, but as soon as he clapped eyes on the great swelling Pacific and the mountains cut from dark green felt and the women with their long blond hair and easy smiles, he knew it was nothing like what he’d known in Texas. Still, he slotted himself into his new surroundings without a second thought. He’d let his hair grow a little, styled it so it curled over his eyes in a way that girls seemed to find charming, checked his accent, learned to surf. It was all so easy for him, college included. A few classes a day and then nothing but time. How could anyone consider it difficult?

  Of course, he thought, smiling fondly back on his younger self, that was just arrogance talking. He’d been a puffed-up son of a bitch, there was no denying that, but how could his head not swell when everything he wanted in life seemed to fall right into his lap? Even Rebecca.

  His moment of epiphany came late in life, but when it came, it engulfed every cell of his being. It was simple, really: he surrendered. With that surrender came even more blessing. A move back home to Texas. A shot at the Senate. A baby on the way.

  Now God had sent him the greatest test he had ever faced.

  If his wife went through with this, he would lose everything. His child. His political career. The pure, unadulterated love he felt when he looked at Rebecca. Worst of all, he knew that if he allowed it to happen, he would be stripped of God’s grace.

  This was his forty days in the desert. This was his fight against the darkness. This was his faith being held to the fire and his will being forged in the flames.

  This was his moment to rise above.

  Ten Days Earlier

  Cait heard something crack in her neck as she climbed out of the Jeep. She’d spent the past ten hours slinging Natty Ices and overfried cheese sticks at college kids watching the Longhorns get the tar beaten out of them. The football shifts were always rough—people got too drunk too early, and there was always at least one asshole to cut off and at least one smear of vomit to mop up—but it was particularly bad when the hometown team was losing. People got mean drunk, the kind of drunk that made them take a swing at a guy for looking at somebody funny or call the girl at the table next to them a bitch. It made people stop tipping their friendly neighborhood bartender, too. Cait had walked out that evening with a measly forty-three dollars in tips and a throbbing lower back.

  So her heart sank a little when she saw her neighbor open his door and wave for her to stop. Adam was a nice enough guy—dragged her empty garbage bin back from the curb, reminded her to move the Jeep on the days the street sweepers were due—but he had a tendency to appear at exactly the wrong moment. This was a perfect example. “Hey,” she called as she strode toward her front door. “I’m kind of in a rush, so—”

  “Somebody was looking for you.”

  Her heart seized. “What do you mean?”

  “A guy came by the apartment earlier. I saw him drive by a couple of times, and he kept slowing down when he got to your house. I thought maybe he was lost or something, but then he pulled up to the curb and just sat there with the engine running. He was there for like twenty minutes.”

  “How do you know he was looking for me?” Of course he was looking for me, Cait thought.

  “I went up to the truck and asked him if he needed anything.”

  “You did?” Cait felt a clutch of fear. “You shouldn’t have done that. He could have been a nutcase.” Of course he was a nutcase. The question was: which nutcase? There were so many of them at the moment, spilling out bile on 4chan and onto her phone, sending threats in the mail. One of them had even sent her a pig’s head. There was no note attached, which somehow made it worse. Most nights, she crashed at friends’ apartments or stayed late at the Dark Horse, sinking free beers with the barbacks and waiting for the sun to come up. If she had to sleep in her own bed, she kept a knife under her pil
low, one hand resting on the hilt.

  “It wasn’t a big deal.” Adam shrugged, oblivious. “I didn’t like him hanging around like that.”

  “Did the guy say anything?”

  “He asked when you’d be home.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I told him it was none of his business.”

  “Did he leave after that?”

  “Yeah, after a while. I watched out the window until he drove away.”

  Cait thought she was going to be sick right there on the sidewalk. “Thanks, Adam. Look, if that happens again, call the police. Have you got my number?”

  He shook his head. She wrote it down on an old receipt and handed it to him. “I’m serious, okay? Don’t try to talk to the guy. He could be dangerous.”

  He nodded. “Are you okay? Do you want to sit down or something?”

  Cait shook her head. “I’m fine, thanks. I’m going to head inside now. Have a good night, and thanks for scaring off whoever that guy was.” She worked up a smile. “My hero.”

  She closed the door behind her and double-checked the locks.

  Outskirts of Santa Rosa, New Mexico—120 Miles to Albuquerque

  The atmosphere in the Jeep was flayed and red-raw. Neither woman had said much since the confrontation out in the desert, both of them locked tight in their own thoughts, stewing.

  Ten miles, fifteen. Twenty. And then suddenly, a billboard rising up from the side of the road, announcing a BBQ joint up ahead. Cait thought it was a mirage at first, it had been so long since she’d seen one. She guessed there wasn’t much call for advertising on these highways. Too few eyes, not worth the marketing spend.

  “We’re almost in Santa Rosa,” she said. “I’m going to need to stop for directions.”

  “Do you think there’ll be something open?”

  Cait shrugged. “It looks like a decent-size town to me.” On the horizon, buildings started to emerge and coalesce. They passed a couple of concrete boxes that looked like office buildings, a corrugated-iron-clad barn, even what looked like a suburban road lined with houses, cars parked neatly out front. “I think there are actual people living here.”

  “Are you sure we should stop? Won’t there be road signs we can follow?”

  “I don’t want to risk us getting lost in the desert and running out of gas again. We should have bought an extra can back at the station, but I didn’t think of it at the time.” More houses, a middle school, a couple of sheds. “There’s enough civilization around. We should be safe.”

  A sign for an RV park, an old military tank parked in the middle of a stretch of brittle, frost-tipped grass, a motel. “There should be a night receptionist on duty there,” Cait said, pointing to the motel sign. “I’ll run in and ask for directions.”

  America’s Best Value Inn turned out to be a bust: it was closed for renovations until February. They climbed back in the car and took a right on Route 66. There was a Food Mart directly after the turn, and Cait pulled in and parked at the pump. “I’ll just be a second,” she said as she unbuckled her seatbelt.

  “Take your time,” Rebecca said, already halfway out the passenger door. “I need a little air.”

  Cait swiped her credit card through the reader and watched Rebecca pace around the parking lot as the tank filled up. She looked washed out and anxious; her eyes were still puffy from crying. The gas pump clicked off, and Cait placed the nozzle back in the holder and screwed the cap back on the tank. “I’m going to go inside and ask for directions,” she called. Rebecca raised a hand but didn’t look at her.

  The gas station took its location literally: the walls of the shop were painted in racing checkerboard and lined with Chevy and Ford decals. Behind the register, someone had painted a reasonable approximation of the classic Route 66 sign, the words america’s road of freedom written underneath. The attendant looked up and smiled. “You get your gas okay?”

  Cait nodded. “I paid at the pump. Can you tell me the best way to get to Albuquerque from here?”

  The man scratched at his beard. “I reckon the fastest route would be to head west on 66. You’ll see it marked as 40 sometimes, too—don’t worry about that, you’re still on the right track. That’ll take you straight into the city, I believe.”

  Cait thanked him and bought a pack of gum and a Diet Coke for his trouble. No stealing this time, not from this guy. She was about to stick her head out the door to ask if Rebecca wanted anything when a scream shattered the air. Cait dropped the Coke on a shelf and ran, the attendant fast behind her.

  Outside, Rebecca was still screaming as a skinny kid in baggy sweatpants and a wifebeater took off down the street. He had Rebecca’s bag in his hands.

  Cait didn’t think. She ran after the kid, sneakers slapping against the concrete, arms pumping, lungs screaming. He was quick, but he didn’t have the stamina she did, and after a couple of blocks, his pace started to drop. She saw her opening. She opened up her stride until she was nipping at his heels, and then she launched herself onto his back, bringing him down to the pavement heavily. She started pummeling him with her fists. “Who the fuck are you?” she screamed, her voice raw in her ears. “What the fuck do you want?” There was a smell coming off him, something animal and damp, and it made Cait’s stomach heave. In that moment, she was convinced it was him.

  A hand grabbed Cait’s shoulder and lifted her off him. Cait kicked at the air. “Leave him be, now,” the attendant said, pulling her back. “That’s enough. He didn’t mean no harm, did you, Billy? He can’t help that he’s a goddamn jackass.”

  The kid—and he was a kid, she saw that now, no older than fifteen—raised his bruised head off the pavement and shook it solemnly. He held out Rebecca’s bag to her. “I’m sorry, miss.”

  “Wait till I tell your mother about this,” the attendant said, tugging the boy to his feet and giving the side of his head a swift smack. “She’ll tan your hide the color of molasses.”

  The kid started blubbering. “Please, Jeff, don’t tell my ma. Please.”

  Cait left the two of them to sort it out between them and headed back to the gas station, where Rebecca stood, pale as milk and clutching her sides. Cait held out the bag without a word.

  Rebecca took it with shaking hands. “Was it him? The man in the truck?”

  Cait shook her head. “Just some punk kid.”

  “I didn’t see his face. He just ran up and grabbed my bag and I thought—I thought—”

  Cait reached out and touched her arm. “I know, but it’s okay. You’re okay now.”

  Rebecca nodded. “Thanks for chasing after him like that.” She held up her bag. “You’re fast.”

  “I ran track in high school, and I still run a few times a week, just to keep myself sane.”

  “I could tell.” Rebecca glanced over at where the boy and the gas station attendant were locked in a heated argument. “Do you think I should say something?”

  Cait raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know . . . like ‘Don’t go around stealing bags, you little shit’?”

  Cait laughed. “Our friend over there has it covered. I don’t think that kid’s going to be stealing anything any time soon.”

  Rebecca looked at her. “I mean it, Cait. Thank you.”

  The air between them suddenly cleared, like the air after a thunderstorm. Cait took a deep breath and nodded. “No problem.”

  The two women got back in the Jeep and headed west without another word.

  Nine Days Earlier

  “Can I get you anything? A cup of coffee? Water?”

  Rich held up his hand. “I’m fine, thanks.”

  Rebecca lowered herself gingerly onto the love seat. Rich was already sitting down—he’d walked straight into her house and made himself comfortable in one of the living room armchairs—but Rebecca had hovered in the doorway for ages, trying to think up an excuse to escape. She’d never been alone with her husband’s campaign manager, and so far, s
he wasn’t enjoying the experience. He’d always made her slightly nervous, and now, after he’d turned up at the house when Patrick was at work without so much as a phone call to warn her, she had to actively fight the urge to run.

  “Thanks for seeing me like this,” Rich said, as if she’d had a choice in the matter. “I know you’re very busy.” He said this poker-faced, but Rebecca caught something dancing behind his eyes, a little private joke to himself.

  He didn’t like her much. She’d known that from the first time they met, when he’d given her a too-firm handshake and a once-over that seemed to conclude in a single glance that she was both definitely fuckable and completely unsuitable to be a politician’s wife. Rebecca hadn’t liked him, either. He had the oily look of a salesman who worked on commission, and all the charm, too. Patrick had told her over and over how lucky he was that Rich had agreed to work with him. Looking at him that first time, Rebecca sensed that Rich was the lucky one to have hitched his wagon to Patrick’s particular star.

  Now his eyebrows tented together in a vague imitation of concern. “How are you feeling?” he asked, leaning forward on his elbows.

  Rebecca realized then why he was there. She kicked herself for being slow: she should have known as soon as she’d spotted his car (an Audi TT, what else) pulling up the drive. Patrick had told him what she was planning on doing, and he was here to stop her.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” she said tightly. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of acknowledging her pain. “How are you feeling?”

  “Oh, you know. Can’t complain. But I’m not here to talk about myself. I’m here to talk about you.” His eyebrows knitted farther together. Rebecca had to marvel at them: they were like a pair of caterpillars being pulled on strings. “Patrick told me your . . . news.”

  Rebecca dug her fingernails into the flesh of her palms. “What news would that be?”