The Forgotten Girl

by Rio Youers

  Several cows butted defensively against the truck. I nudged around them, then picked up speed. I drove through the hole in the fence I’d already made, then trundled west until I found a road.

  Dad’s truck rattled and knocked. I crawled one mile to the next, away from the scene.

  I thought I heard sirens but might have imagined that.

  * * *

  I drove for almost two hours, keeping to the back roads, my speed sinking from thirty-five to twenty until finally I had to ditch the truck. No bad thing. I had a feeling the police were looking for me, not to mention a few irate farmers. More concerning still: The hunt dogs knew the truck. Jackhammer and Brickhead were perhaps out of the picture, but the spider had more goons at his disposal. Given how they’d tracked me, I had to assume the truck was bugged, not while it was parked at Dad’s house—we’d checked it thoroughly—but when I was already on the road. They’d likely planted a tracking device when I’d stopped for a bite to eat.

  I thought I’d have to drive it into a forest and leave it, but went one better, disposing of it completely so that the license plate or VIN couldn’t be traced to Dad. I followed a rutted trail to the edge of a small lake. A rocky embankment dropped sharply to the water. I pulled Sally from the foot well and lay her on the soft grass—plucked the dart from her throat and threw it into the weeds. She stirred. Her eyelids fluttered but she didn’t wake. I grabbed my backpack, ejected mix tape Vol. II, dropped the truck into neutral. It started rolling immediately and I lunged backward with a gasp. I watched the tailgate—pocked with rust and bullet holes—disappear over the embankment. There was a crunching sound as it struck and bounced over the rocks, then a booming splash as it met the water. I crawled toward the edge and looked down. The old truck was ass-up in the lake. It had worked hard and died like a hero.

  “Sorry, Dad.”

  I took a T-shirt from my backpack, scuttled down to the water, soaked it through. I used it to wash the blood from my nose and arm, then as a compress against my swollen cheek. It was soothing. I closed my eyes and sighed. I dipped it in the water again, returned to Sally, wiped the trickle of blood from her throat, and then mopped her brow.

  Only then did I let it in. Everything that had happened—that was happening—crowded my mind: Sally, the hunt dogs, the chase, this war I found myself fighting—a war I didn’t want and couldn’t win. Like Sally, all I could do was run. We were in this together.

  By the time I’d regained an iota of composure, Dad’s truck had sunk completely from view. A few bubbles disturbed the surface, but that was all.

  I wondered if the tracking device, if not still working, would lead the hunt dogs to its last known location. If so, they could be here at any moment. I held my breath and listened but all I heard was the rain in the trees.

  I took the .38 Special from my backpack and tucked it into the waistband of my jeans.

  We had to get moving and Sally was still out.

  * * *

  I don’t know how much strength and energy you can distil from adrenaline, but I hoisted Sally—easily one-thirty in her cowboy boots—onto my shoulders and carried her until the sun went down. I maintained a westerly direction, using the sky as my compass, and stayed away from roads and buildings—from people; a man carrying an unconscious woman on his shoulders can only raise suspicion.

  So I crashed through thickets and crossed streams and navigated woodland where the trees were dense and birds sang angrily. I rested seldom and for never longer than five minutes. It stopped raining. I was grateful for that. The clouds thinned and I watched a fingernail moon rise. Too dark to keep walking, I found a derelict barn filled with old engine parts and a bed of damp straw. I made it more comfortable with clothes from my backpack and lay Sally down, kissed her forehead. I pulled the gun from my jeans, sat on an engine block, and kept my eye on the open barn door.

  I didn’t sleep. Not a wink.

  Fifteen

  “Why did you come?”

  “Because I love you.”

  “Not a good enough reason.”

  “I think it is, but here’s another reason: Because you took something from me.”

  “If you’ve come this far, you’ll know it’s because I had to.”

  “Yeah, maybe. Which leads me to the third reason for tracking you down: answers … I think I deserve some answers.”

  Sally sighed and looked away from me.

  “We were together for six years,” I said. “I’m pretty sure you know everything there is to know about me. Not because you stole it from my mind, but because I shared it. Call me crazy, but I figure that’s what you do in a relationship.”

  “A normal relationship, yes.”

  “Isn’t that what you want?”

  “It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

  “It begins with honesty,” I said. “For six years I was in the dark. It seems everything I knew about you was a lie. Including your name.”

  She looked at me.

  “Miranda,” I said.

  She seemed surprised that I knew this. Her eyes widened then flickered, a mite regretful, perhaps. A lock of hair spilled across her cheek and I reached without thinking, curled it behind one ear. It felt wrong, somehow, to touch her like this. I loved her, yes, but I didn’t know her.

  “It’s self-preservation,” she said. “I live very carefully, Harvey. And that’s the thing: I can restore your memories, give you all the answers, but we can never be together. My life is too dangerous.”

  “I’m a part of your life,” I said. “A part of your danger. We’re in this together.”

  “No,” she said.

  It was early morning, the sky charcoal in the west, rimmed with milky light in the east. The trees were tangled silhouettes and the birdsong was mayhem. We sat outside the barn, which creaked and whistled in the breeze, our breaths frosting the air. I took a moment to gather my thoughts, and the line I’d rehearsed a thousand times—which had deserted me when I first saw Sally—finally dropped into my mind. It didn’t seem nearly as powerful now, but it was the best I had.

  I wanted to touch her again.

  “You don’t have to be alone.”

  * * *

  We walked maybe a mile with the sun rising at our backs, following a stream through the woods, then taking a beaten pathway that skirted a pond where cricket frogs chirped. It ended in a clearing, at the other side of which we found a bush drooping with plump red raspberries. They were chilled with dew and we gathered them greedily, ate in silence. Our hands and faces sticky, we walked on, listening to our feet on the ground and the constant whistle of nature, and then, eventually, traffic sounds. We followed these to a road and walked the shoulder and some twenty minutes later arrived at a village called Moon.

  * * *

  A weathered sign placed us fifty-five miles west of Salina, which put us eighty or so miles from where I’d shaken the hunt dogs. A good distance. Unfortunately, we were only seven or eight miles from where I’d dumped the truck. I shared my theory of how the tracking device would draw the hunt dogs to the lake, which meant they could be closing in.

  “We need distance,” I said. “And fast.”

  I had wanted to buy a bottle of water in Moon, maybe see if there was somewhere we could catch a bus or taxi. Sally shook her head.

  “This is a tiny village. Maybe two hundred people. We buy anything or talk to anyone, we leave a footprint. You need to be smarter, Harvey.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “How much money do you have in your wallet?”

  We walked another two hours, maybe five miles, cutting across farmland typical of the central plains. We stayed within earshot of traffic, emerging intermittently until we found what we were looking for: a gas station with a sandwich joint attached. My dry mouth clicked and my stomach growled. We did eat, but we weren’t there for the food.

  “We’re going to buy a ride,” Sally said, and took a long swig of water. We’d already downed a bottle each. “The seekers
could have bus and train terminals in all the big towns around here covered. So we need to go farther. Out of state.”

  Seekers. What I—and Lang, to be fair—called the hunt dogs. Sally’s terminology reminded me that she had been doing this since 2006. A fifteen-year-old girl on the run. I ached for her.

  “Whatever you say,” I said.

  “So what are we looking for?”

  “Vehicles with out of state plates,” I said, and tore into my foot-long. Mayo dripped down my chin and I didn’t care.

  “Right,” she said. “Gas stations—even small ones like this—see people from all over the country, so they’re great for buying rides. Ideally, we’re looking for a young couple like us. Open-minded types who could use the extra cash. Failing that, a dude in a suit; businessmen don’t like sharing their cars, but they do like money.”

  We were sitting at a table in the sandwich joint watching the vehicles rumble up to the pumps. All sky-blue Kansas plates so far.

  “We can’t just hitch a ride?” I asked.

  “Time is against us,” Sally said. “We can buy a ride a lot quicker than we can hitch one.”

  “Okay.” I nodded, took another mouthful of sandwich. “Whatever it takes.”

  “Our story: I’m a writer, you’re a musician. We’re going to a rock festival in … wherever: somewhere between here and where they’re headed. We’re traveling bohemian-style, seeing the land, just a few clothes in a backpack. It’s like Woodstock, baby. It’s romantic.”

  “Sounds good,” I said. “Believable.”

  “Not my first rodeo,” Sally said.

  This was an ideal time to ask about previous rodeos—the food had revived me; I burned with questions—but just then a Cadillac with New Mexico plates pulled in and the moment was lost. Sally had turned away from me, looking to see who got out of the car.

  “I’ll let you do the talking,” I said.

  “Good idea.”

  But it was a no-go: a middle-aged female driver with angry lines across her brow, snapping into a cell phone as she gassed up.

  “She looks like a barrel of laughs,” I said. “Let’s go to Albuquerque with her.”

  “Even if she was all smiles and sunbeams, she wouldn’t help us out. Women traveling alone are understandably cautious about giving rides to strangers. Show her a hundred bucks and all she’ll see is a fistful of red flags. She might even call the cops.”

  “We don’t want that,” I said. “Let’s stick to greedy, gullible guys.”

  “You’re learning.” Sally looked at me, the slightest of smiles on her face. “Is this the life you want, Harvey?”

  “It’s the life I’ve got,” I replied and then, attempting levity, “I think the extreme haircut shows how committed I am.”

  “That’s the only smart thing you’ve done,” Sally remarked. “But it takes more than that.”

  “I know,” I said. “And I’m ready; I’m in this for the long haul.”

  “You don’t have to be. We go our separate ways and the target switches to me. It’s always been me.”

  I thought of the way the hunt dogs’ car had plowed into the cows and flipped, its roof partially crushed and its wheels splayed. More particularly I thought of Jackhammer’s bloodstained arm flopping through the broken window.

  “I’m not so sure about that,” I said.

  Sally lowered her eyes, finished her sandwich and water, wiped her mouth with a napkin.

  “You should freshen up,” she said. “You don’t smell great. Change your T-shirt. Wash your face. It’ll help.”

  “Right,” I said, and grabbed my backpack; I did smell a little funky. “I’ll be right back.”

  The restroom was at the back of the dining area and I pushed the door open on a dimly lit cube smelling of disinfectant with a bucket and mop in one corner, a toilet without a seat, and a sink bolted to the wall. The water was lukewarm but felt good on my face. I took off my shirt, soaped my armpits and splashed them clean. No towels, so I let them air-dry while I brushed my teeth. It was only when I was smearing deodorant into my pits and across my chest that I realized my mistake, my stupidity. I looked at my ridiculous face in the mirror—eyes wide, jaw loose—while Sally’s words struck a mocking note in my mind.

  You need to be smarter, Harvey.

  I pulled on the same smelly T-shirt I’d taken off, snatched up my backpack, darted from the restroom with such zeal that the door cracked against the wall and the mop toppled to the floor. I reeled into the dining area and saw, with zero surprise, that Sally had gone. Our table by the window was empty but for our sandwich wrappers and empty water bottles.

  “Shit,” I muttered, still hiking down my T-shirt. “Shit fucking shit.”

  Of course she was gone. She didn’t want me in her dangerous life. She’d taken this opportunity to remove herself—again—and was likely sitting in the passenger seat of a car heading … Jesus Christ, could be anywhere; we were in the middle of the country. Throw a goddamn dart at the map.

  “Fuck,” I snapped, everything inside me sinking. Weaving across the dining area, cursing out loud, I realized I was leaving a pretty deep footprint. If the hunt dogs came here asking questions, the staff would have no problem remembering me. Tall dude with a scar on his face? Mouth like a sewer? Yeah, he was here. Sally reminded me again that I needed to be smarter, and I told the voice to shut up, to just shut the fuck—

  The thought snapped like it had been frozen and tapped once with a hammer. I had exited the sandwich joint into the toxin-scented air and there was Sally, hands casually on hips, talking to some immaculate business type in a shirt-and-tie combo. He had a neatly groomed goatee and boot-polish hair. His cufflinks blinked in the light as he pumped premium fuel into a Lexus with Oklahoma plates.

  I stepped slowly toward them, my jets cooling as if they too had been frozen. The smile on my face covered everything I felt inside.

  Sally turned toward me and beamed.

  “Baby,” she said. “Three hundred dollars gets us to Tulsa.”

  “Only if he sits in the back,” Mr. Immaculate added, wrinkling his nose at me.

  “Deal,” I said.

  * * *

  We were five hours from Tulsa and with every mile my anxiety lifted. We put the gas station behind us, along with the lake where I’d dumped Dad’s faithful old truck. The clock on Mr. Immaculate’s dash read 11:15 and by 2:30 we had Kansas in the rearview. It was like removing a burdensome weight from my shoulders.

  I wanted to believe Sally felt a similar relief but it was difficult to gauge her mood. She wore her mask throughout the trip and told some fabulous lies. She was incredibly convincing, too. It made me wonder if I’d fallen in love with the real Sally, or one of her many characters: crunchy, alternative Sally Starling, who threaded beads into her hair and didn’t wear perfumes, and who probably knew a dozen kick-ass quinoa recipes. If she were to stand before me, stripped of her masks and fabrications, would I love her still?

  I was glad to be in the back. I didn’t have to talk. Didn’t have to lie. I caught a few z’s but not many. Mostly I listened to the conversation up front and the thrum of the road, but I also paid attention to the thin place that’s inside us all: the point at which heart and mind come together.

  * * *

  Mr. Immaculate dropped us in Sand Springs, a suburb of Tulsa, about seven miles west of the city proper. It was a little after 4 p.m. and we were hungry, in need of a shower, and I, at least, wanted to plummet stonelike into a bed and sleep for a day.

  “We should find a motel,” I said. “Get cleaned up. Plan our next move.”

  “We?” Sally asked, looking at me with one eyebrow raised. “There is no we, Harvey. I got us out of the danger zone. Now you go your way, I go mine.”

  “You can’t be serious,” I said.

  She walked away from me, head down. I shouldered my pack and hurried after her. We were on Second Street, four lanes of clean road, not especially busy even at this time. There were people
around, though, and I didn’t want to make a scene—didn’t want to shriek that I’d spent so much of my time pining for her, wanting to care for and protect her, that I’d traveled halfway across the country looking for her and be damned if I was going to let her shrug her shoulders and walk away. Actually, I did want to shriek those things, and more, but instead I strolled beside her with my lip buttoned, at least until we made a right on Main and parked ourselves on a bench outside the library. The late afternoon breeze made the tree behind us shake its leaves.

  “You know what I think?” I said.

  Sally looked at me with dark, tired eyes.

  “I think you wanted me to find you.” I gave that a moment to sink in, then continued. “Not as soon as I did, of course, but down the line … a year—five years—from now. You left the door a little way open.”

  “That’s very sweet, Harvey,” Sally said. “And very wrong.”

  “Really?” I tapped my brow. “You leave one memory in my head—the memory of you dancing to ‘Abilene,’ which just happens to be the town you ran away to.”

  “I erased the soundtrack.”

  “Yeah, you did. But I wrote it down in my Book of Moments, which you knew, because you stole the memory of me having written it.”

  Sally slumped, shaking her head. “I knew that goddamn book would bite me in the ass.”

  “You probably figured it was buried beneath a pile of shit in my dad’s house, and that I’d come across it after he died.” I smiled and spread my hands. “Well, I came across it a lot sooner than that. And here I am.”

  “Bravo, Harvey. Now get out of here.”

  “No can do,” I said, unable to keep the frustration from my voice. “Unlike you, I can’t just shut off my emotions, move on to the next … whatever.”

  “I do what it takes to stay safe.”

  “Help me understand,” I said. “Let me in.”

  “I considered letting you in,” Sally said. “I told you I can’t stay in one place for too long, and asked if you’d run away with me. Okay, so I didn’t expect you to bounce off the walls with enthusiasm, but if you’d shown even a shred of interest, I would have opened up to you. Not completely, just a little, then a little more. But this life, Harvey, this constant danger … it’s not for you. Never has been. Never will be.”