Don't Turn Around

by Jessica Barry

  The Jeep’s engine took a couple of tries to turn over, but it managed in the end, and together they wound their way down the dirt track and back onto the main road.

  Cait didn’t look back. Her ribs were bruised and her face bloodied and swollen and her left arm throbbed, but what had happened back in the desert already felt like a dream. She knew she’d left part of herself back there on the mesa, too, next to the body and the burnt-out truck. She didn’t think she would miss it.

  They found an auto body shop attached to a gas station just shy of Moriarty and pulled in. Just in time: the Jeep was limping hard, and Cait could feel it was about to give up. She parked around back and they went straight to the ladies’ room to clean themselves up as best they could. Cait’s mouth was swollen and sore, and Rebecca had a nasty-looking gash above her eye, but the rest of their injuries could be hidden. Cait had a couple of changes of clothes in the backseat: leggings and baggy sweatshirts that made them look like a pair of sorority sisters on their way to a cleansing retreat. They stashed their bloodied clothes under the seat for Cait to get rid of later, once they were back in Texas.

  They’d fixed their story on the way. If anyone asked—and the mechanic did, as soon as Cait pointed to the Jeep parked in the back of the lot—they would say that a fox had run in front of them and she’d swerved off the road trying to avoid it. The best stories are always the ones rooted in the truth: sure enough, there was a tuft of fur lodged in the grille, and a faint spray of blood. Enough to make the mechanic stop asking questions and start talking numbers for the repairs.

  “She’s pretty beat up,” he said, shaking his head. “We’re probably talking a new front axle, maybe some engine damage, too. It’s gonna take some time, and it’s gonna cost.”

  Rebecca already had her bag open and was rummaging for her wallet. “That’s fine. I’m happy to pay whatever it costs to get back on the road.”

  Cait stepped forward. “Do me a favor,” she said, walking around the Jeep. “Put it up on the jack and let’s have a look together.”

  The mechanic shook his head. “I’m not sure—”

  “Please.” She shot him a winning smile. “Just humor me.”

  The mechanic winched it up onto the jack, and together the two of them slid underneath its belly. After a few minutes, Cait scooted out gingerly.

  “Looks like a cracked pan gasket to me,” she said, easing herself to her feet and wiping the grease from her hands with a rag.

  “Me, too,” the mechanic agreed begrudgingly. “I guess she’s made of tougher stuff than I thought. It’ll be ready in an hour or so.”

  Cait bought a bunch of snacks from the gas station—powdered doughnuts, a tray of tortilla chips covered in nacho cheese from a pump, jumbo-size coffees with cream and sugar—and laid them out on the picnic table at the back of the parking lot, though neither woman ate anything. The sun was full in the sky, the heat warming the plastic tabletop.

  It was nine o’clock, and they were still a full hour away from Albuquerque.

  “I’m sorry we didn’t make the appointment,” Cait said quietly. “I could call them, ask if they can reschedule for later in the day . . .”

  Rebecca shook her head. “It’s too late.”

  Cait didn’t understand. Rebecca was only eighteen weeks pregnant, according to her file, which gave her plenty of time, and Cait was sure the clinic in Albuquerque would do whatever they could to accommodate them. “Are you sure you don’t want me to make a phone call, or—”

  But Rebecca just smiled that sad smile of hers and tilted her chin up toward the sun, and after a few minutes Cait did the same, feeling the warmth of the rays on her skin, breathing in the crisp air. Something inside her loosened and unspooled.

  It would be Christmas soon. She would go home to Waco this year, give away her shifts at the bar even though Christmas Eve was one of her biggest nights, tips-wise. She might even spend a few weeks there afterward, tucked up in her childhood bedroom, staring up at the posters she’d tacked to her wall as a teenager, photographs of New York and London and Paris, all the places she’d dreamed of visiting one day, and all the people she’d dreamed she might become.

  Texas Border—86 Miles to Lubbock

  They took a different route home, south on 25 and then 380 through Roswell, where cars with “I Believe” decals lined the parking lots of the UFO Museum and the Alien Zone gift shop. Neither of them could face going back the way they’d come, even if this route took them a little longer.

  They had a lot of time to talk during the drive back to Texas. Enough time for Cait to explain to Rebecca who Adam had been to her, but not enough time to explain why he’d decided to come after her—after them—the way he had. She said she’d always sensed that he was lonely, as if that might be a justifiable reason for trying to kill her. Rebecca wished she could absolve Cait of the guilt she was carrying. What had happened to them couldn’t be explained or rationalized. Blame couldn’t be apportioned. Whoever Adam was, whatever had driven him to try to kill them . . . they would never understand it, because evil like that couldn’t be understood. It could be withstood, and resisted, and survived. But it couldn’t be understood.

  So no, Cait shouldn’t blame herself. Yes, she’d written the article about Jake, but that hadn’t been justification for what had followed, just like it hadn’t been Rebecca’s fault that Patrick had made that stupid speech. You could only be responsible for your own actions in this life. There was nothing else.

  They passed a road sign: welcome to texas. drive friendly, the texas way.

  There were moments when Rebecca had thought she might never again cross the state line back to Texas. Back home.

  Was it home? This great wide empty place, where the skies were bigger and bluer than she’d ever imagined, where, on a spring morning in April, she could open her doors wide and let in the sweetest air she’d ever smelled. She tried to picture the house she’d left not even twenty-four hours before. Was that really still her home? Could she walk through those doors and sit at that kitchen table and climb into bed between the soft sheets and feel that she belonged?

  She was suddenly aware of Cait’s eyes on her, watching. “What are you going to do?”

  It was unnerving, the way the girl could read her mind sometimes. “I don’t know,” she admitted.

  “We could keep going, you know. Straight to Austin. There’s a clinic there, I know the women who work there. You could stay with me.”

  Rebecca let the possibility hang in the air in front of her, glittering like a mirage. “That’s a very sweet offer,” she said eventually, which she knew wasn’t an answer. It was close to five o’clock in the evening. The summons stashed at the bottom of her bag had demanded that she appear in court at eleven a.m., which meant the hearing would have happened in her absence hours ago, and while she couldn’t know for sure what the judge’s decision would have been, she had a pretty clear inkling. It was just as Cait had said on the road all those miles ago: Patrick was one of life’s winners. As soon as she’d read the charges filed against her, she’d known she would be on the losing side. That was why she’d had to go to New Mexico. The summons had started the clock ticking, and she couldn’t afford the twenty-four-hour waiting period mandated in Texas. So she’d had to risk crossing state lines, and she’d had to do it before the hearing took place. After that, the police would be watching her, waiting for her to make a move. She figured they were already watching, but until the judge banged his gavel, she’d had to hope they wouldn’t stop her. And they hadn’t. She’d made it to New Mexico. She just hadn’t made it to Albuquerque.

  All of which meant now that she was back in Texas, they’d be looking for her. She wondered if it had been a mistake to turn down Cait’s offer to stay in New Mexico a little while longer, but she didn’t want the girl to get in any more trouble than she already had, and she was pretty sure that if Cait helped her get an abortion once the hearing had occurred, she’d be considered an accomplice. This way,
it would be just Rebecca’s neck on the line.

  Cait steered the Jeep into the Allsup’s parking lot. “Last fill-up until we get back,” she said, swinging open the door. “Do you want anything from inside?”

  “No, thanks.” The idea of the fluorescent-orange snack foods that Cait seemed to favor made Rebecca’s stomach heave.

  She watched Cait’s back retreat into the store. The cloudless sky had turned a deep slate blue. It would be dark soon.

  Rebecca shifted in her seat, a futile attempt to get more comfortable. It was dark inside the Jeep thanks to the temporary plastic sheeting the mechanic had taped to the windows. The windshield would have to be replaced, too, thanks to the spidery crack in the top left corner. She’d give Cait some money to help pay for it. Her stomach roiled after so many hours without food, though the thought of eating felt impossible. She wondered how long it would be until she regained her appetite. She wondered if she would feel this sick for the rest of her life.

  She put a hand on her stomach. I tried, baby girl. I tried everything I could, but it wasn’t enough, and now I’ve failed you. She closed her eyes against the thought.

  A knock on the windshield, too loud.

  She looked up to see a man in a dark blue uniform standing in front of the Jeep. Square jaw. Cap pulled low. The glint of a badge. Hand resting on his holster.

  She opened the door a crack. “Can I help you?”

  “Rebecca McRae?”

  She nodded.

  “Ma’am. Please step out of the vehicle.”

  Six Hours Earlier—Lubbock County Courthouse, Lubbock, Texas

  Judge Proctor swept into the room and perched behind his bench like a shrewd-eyed crow who’d just spotted his next meal. He had a stack of papers in front of him, and he straightened them on the bench as he told the courtroom to be seated.

  Rich noticed the scrape on the judge’s left knuckle, fresh from his fall during their squash game that morning. He should send a bottle of champagne to apologize, he thought, even though the shot he’d taken had been fair and it wasn’t his fault that the judge wasn’t as steady on his feet as he should have been. Really, the judge should be the one sending him champagne, not just because he’d let him win the match. This case was a peach, enough to make the judge’s name, maybe even get him on the short list for the circuit. He could already hear the solemn tones of the nightly newscaster: “A remarkable breakthrough for antiabortion activists in Texas today as Lubbock County judge Anthony Proctor ruled that an unborn fetus deserves the same rights and legal protections as a person.”

  Of course, he hadn’t made the ruling yet, but Rich knew he would. There was a reason he’d told his lawyer to go for Judge Proctor. He knew which side his bread was buttered on. Rich had made sure of that.

  Patrick’s knee started to judder under the desk next to him, and Rich nudged him to stop. He knew the guy was nervous, but he needed to hide it. There were cameras waiting for them on the other side of those double doors. He needed his candidate looking calm and assured as soon as they started snapping.

  The judge cleared his throat. “Thank you for coming this morning. I’ve had the chance to consider both sides of the argument and am ready to give my ruling. On the matter of McRae v. McRae, with the defendant Rebecca McRae understood to be in absentia, the court sides with the prosecution and hereby agrees to a temporary injunction preventing the defendant from taking her unborn child, hereby referred to as ‘Baby McRae,’ across state borders and preventing her from seeking termination of the pregnancy.”

  He waited until the murmur in the courtroom had subsided. Rich could tell by the way the judge puffed up his chest behind the bench that he was enjoying it. Scrap the champagne. He’d given the old guy enough of a gift today.

  “I have not taken this decision lightly. Guiding this ruling is the importance of the marital relationship in our society as shown in Griswold v. Connecticut and Maynard v. Hill. It is this court’s belief that the institution of marriage can only continue to prosper if the rights of both partners are considered to be equal, and it is this court’s opinion that the father’s right to protect his child’s life should be placed above the mother’s right to destroy it. We recognize that when a woman decides to terminate a pregnancy without the consent of the father of that child, she is violating not only the rights of the father but also the rights of the unborn child, for whom the father advocates. I believe it is the state’s role to protect the lives of its citizens at all costs, and I believe that Texas should be following in the footsteps of the great states of Alabama, Kansas, and Missouri by protecting the rights of our most vulnerable citizens, those who have not yet been born. As Baby McRae cannot argue for his or her own protection, I understand that Mr. McRae is acting on the child’s behalf. Should Mrs. McRae violate this decision by taking Baby McRae across state lines without the express permission of both Mr. McRae and this court, and should she seek to terminate the life of Baby McRae without the express permission of Mr. McRae and this court, she will be in violation of the court’s mandate and will be subject to prosecution.”

  Another murmur from the court. Rich saw Patrick’s shoulders begin to shake and moved to stop him before checking himself. Fine, let the guy cry. The public loves a politician who shows emotion, as long as he’s a man. Housewives around the state will be swooning when they see his handsome, tear-streaked face. What a father, they’ll say to themselves. What a man!

  Yep, he was playing this one right out of the ballpark. Rebecca thought she was smarter than he was, thought she didn’t need to listen, that she could do whatever she wanted and somehow get away with it.

  He smiled to himself.

  She was about to learn that nobody outsmarts Rich Cadogan. Nobody.

  Texas Border—86 Miles from Albuquerque

  They know about Adam.

  That was Cait’s first thought when she saw the cop leaning through the Jeep’s window and shining a flashlight in Rebecca’s stricken face. She tossed a twenty at the gas station clerk and burst through the door just in time to see the police officer pulling Rebecca from the passenger seat by her elbow.

  Cait ran up to him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  The officer—a tall, stony-faced man with his cap pulled low over his eyes—held up a hand to stop her. “Ma’am, please take a step back.”

  Cait took another step forward. “Not until you explain to me what you’re doing. This is my car, you know. I have a right.”

  He raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Ma’am, you are currently interfering with an arrest, which itself is an arrestable offense, so unless you two want to be sharing a jail cell, I suggest you take a step back.” He smirked at her, and she had to hold her hands behind her back to keep from slapping him.

  “At least tell me where you’re taking her.”

  “Down the road, to the Yoakum County Jail. You’re welcome to follow.”

  Cait’s eyes sought out Rebecca’s. “Are you okay?”

  She expected Rebecca to be terrified, but instead she looked preternaturally calm. Almost like she’d been expecting this. “I’m fine,” she said quietly. “It’s okay.”

  Cait nodded. “We’ll figure this out, I promise. I’ll be right behind.”

  She watched as the officer lowered Rebecca into the back of the cruiser, one hand resting on the top of her head. Cait wanted to scream at him not to touch her, but she held herself in check. She had to play by his rules for the moment, whatever they were. If she made a scene, she’d only be making things harder for Rebecca.

  Cait jumped behind the wheel of the Jeep, shoved the plastic bag full of snacks under Rebecca’s empty seat, and sparked up the engine. The cruiser put on his lights, and Cait followed them out of the parking lot.

  Her mind raced as she followed the cruiser through town. The officer wouldn’t tell her why he was arresting Rebecca, but it had to be about what had happened out on that mountain. Had they found Adam’s body? The charred remains of
his truck? How would they have linked Rebecca to his death so quickly? They’d been careful to wipe the prints off the gun before they left it next to his body. Cait had harbored the hope that whoever stumbled across the scene might think it was a suicide, though that felt naive now, absurd. They should have been more careful when cleaning up the site. They might have wiped the prints, but their blood would be all over.

  Blood. Shit, their bloody clothes were still stuffed in the back. She glanced in the rearview mirror. She could explain the rest of it—the smashed-out windows, the bruises on their faces—by saying they’d been in an accident, but she couldn’t explain how someone else’s blood ended up on their clothes. She should have gotten rid of them back in New Mexico. It had been stupid of her to think it would be better to bring them back with her. How could she have been so careless? If they tested them, they would find traces of Adam’s blood. How would they talk their way out of that one?

  It was self-defense. He had tried to kill them.

  But how could they prove it?

  Stop. Calm down. She was getting ahead of herself. Adam’s death had happened only a few hours earlier. Even if someone had found his body as soon as they’d left, how would the police have been able to pull together the evidence that fast? She couldn’t imagine why Rebecca’s prints would be in the system. How had they traced her?

  Her own prints, though . . . Back in high school, during her shoplifting days, she’d been picked up outside of Walgreens for stealing a curling iron. The officer had taken her down to the station, printed her, even put her in a cell for a couple of hours until her mom could get off work and collect her. They’d said at the time that she wasn’t being charged—the officer had done it more to scare her than anything else—but how could she know for sure that they hadn’t kept her prints on file?