“Crap, oh, crap!” I breathe, squeezing the steering wheel so tight it hurts.
Jonathan, snoring softly, continues to sleep soundly despite being jostled about like glitter in a snow globe.
“Typical,” I snort, but I don’t have the heart to wake him. It’s not like there’s anything he can do. Then is occurs to me, he’s likely recouping from shock as anything. Sleeping it off.
Ahead, there’s an overpass. I take my foot off the gas, waiting until I’m through the bridge, then simultaneously crank the wheel and turn off the headlights. Without stopping, I loop around, gun it up the grassy hill and lurch out onto the new highway, this time going east.
On edge, I watch the road. But there are only a couple of trucks on the highway. After a while, I let out a breath. Never taking my eyes off the mirrors, I cross the state line into Pennsylvania.
I turn on the radio to a classic rock satellite station, glad for the distraction, until I lose the signal and have to settle for local country. I’ve never been a fan of the whiny-twang, but it doesn’t last long. A sudden news alert sends my foot slamming onto the brake. Jonathan’s head smacks against the passenger window with a dull thud.
“What the—?”
Now he’s awake.
We both stare at the radio. “We have a breaking story and police are asking for your help. A young couple is wanted in connection with the horrendous murders of their families. Keira Donavan, may be using the alias Lindy, is five-six, one-hundred and twenty pounds with brown hair and green eyes. Her accomplice, Jonathan Steed, is a well-connected millionaire. Steed is six-foot-one, one hundred and seventy-five pounds and could be wearing green contacts to hide his hazel eyes. The pair is believed to be traveling together in a stolen Hummer with unknown plates. If you see them, contact the F.B.I. immediately. These two are dangerous, trained in hand-to-hand combat and most likely armed. Do not approach. ”
“More lies. Everyone knows the Brotherhood doesn’t use weapons.” Jonathan glares indignantly at the radio.
The car coasts across the empty interstate, hitting the ditch before I pump the break. My mind spins, playing the words “murdered their families” over and over again. Lindy’s dead? No, it’s not possible. Life without Lindy would wither and fade, the sun would crumble into dust. The earth would spin into oblivion and the universe would forget we ever existed.
“Whoa! Breathe, Keira, breathe,” Jonathan orders, rubbing my back.
I shrug him off. “Did you…? They said… Murdered our families? They’re saying we…? I’ll kill ‘em. If they hurt her…if anyone, I’ll…”
“Shhh, no, wait.”
My bloodless fingers dig into the steering wheel, spinning the too-boxy vehicle around.
Jonathan, plastered to the passenger door and looking very white, hangs from the seatbelt as though his life depends on that thin strip of fiber. “That’s exactly what they want! They’re counting on you to come back for revenge. I’m sure our families are fine. They’re probably hiding them in the Witness Protection Program or something. Pull over, let me check.”
The red sheen slowly recedes from my vision as I ease off the gas.
“What?” I huff.
“That’s what I’d do if I wanted to catch someone. I’d find leverage. Pull over, let me check.” Jonathan rights himself and motions to a field of corn on our right.
Feeling as alert as I would if I were dreaming, I make a path straight through the middle of the field, corn scraping the Hummer’s gleaming black paint job as I go. I don’t even try to navigate the deep tracker ruts. I just want to get away from the road, somewhere my head can clear of this incessant buzzing in my ears. I drop the gear to Park and bury my head under my arms, breathing…just breathing.
Seemingly endless minutes of listening to Jonathan typing go by, my blood pressure off the charts, before he announces. “Yep, I’m right, your family is going to Washington State and mine to Texas. Oh boy, my dad’s not going to like that, but yes—they’re all very much alive!”
“That’s why they dropped the chase. They have our families. But…?” I twist my fingers in my hair, squeezing my eyes tight and willing the world to make sense again. “Wait a minute, how you can possibly know where they are?”
“We were chased?” Jonathan intercedes.
“There was no reason to wake you, you couldn’t have done anything.”
“Oh, I get it.” Jonathan’s lips disappear into a thin line. “You still don’t trust me. You think I don’t have anything to offer, other than my plane that is.”
“No, it’s not that.”
“Prove it.”
“Excuse me?” I gape at him.
“Prove it. Tell me everything,” he says, words coming sharp and quick.
“Everything about what?” I blink.
“About the chase. Every detail you remember.”
I consider him, trying to understand why he looks hurt and furious at the same time. “At the truck stop, when I stopped for gas, I noticed an unmarked car across the street.”
“Did you get a tag number?” He interrupts me.
“No, I got the hell out of there. I flipped around the opposite direction, turned off the headlights and jumped on a different highway.”
“Do you remember what highway you were on, which exit you took?”
I shake my head.
“…the name of the truck stop? Anything?”
“Oh!” I reach in the console and grab the receipt. “Here.”
Jonathan snatches it, glancing at it briefly, before plunking the keys on his laptop. “That wasn’t SEEK or the Brotherhood, it was an unmarked Highway Patrolman who’d been camped on the side of the road with his radar to monitor a speed zone change. Your ‘erratic’ driving and high speeds alerted him and he gave chase. When he realized he’d lost you, he put out an APB on the make and model of this vehicle, but he never got close enough to read the plates. That’s how SEEK found us.”
“What?” I freeze. “Ugh, I’m so stupid!”
“You’re not stupid, you’re tired. It’s been a very long day and you’ve been driving for hours. Here, this might cheer you up,” Jonathan says, handing me his laptop.
I glance down at the satellite image of an unassuming house in a suburban neighborhood, feeling small.
“That’s where they’re taking your family.”
“You’re sure?” I ask, scowling at the computer. “How do you know that?”
“It’s easy,” he says, pointing to the top right corner of the page that reads “F.B.I.”
“You’re logged into the F.B.I.’s mainframe?” I gasp.
Jonathan nods easily. “I’ll teach you how later if you let me drive. Seriously, you look exhausted.”
I pull my hands away from my eyes. “I’m not,” I lie, as a huge yawn overwhelms me.
“Right. It doesn’t make you weak, just human. Let me drive,” he whispers, prying my fingers from the gearshift.
Jonathan’s extraordinarily-optimistic outlook is shining all over the place, making me less and less cheerful. “You, know? You’ve never said why you’re doing this and I’m done trusting people just because they tell me to.” Arms crossed firmly over my chest, I wiggle into the seatback, unwilling to budge.
His face is still too pleasant. He looks nothing like a guy running for his life should look. “Why am I offering to drive when you need rest?”
“Why are you doing all of this—?” I sweep my arms wide, letting them fall at my sides. “You could’ve just let me die, but you didn’t. Why?”
Jonathan considers the question, his bright eyes searching my face. “Because. I don’t know. There’s something about you that makes me...” His smile matches the sweet musical timbre to his voice.
“Makes you what?”
“You don’t fool me, Keira. I know you feel it too. We share something real and unique, something tangible. I can almost touch it.” Jonathan’s hand reaches up as though an invisible bubble hangs in the air betwe
en our seats.
“All I feel is the adrenaline of escaping imminent death.” A chill prickles along my spine. I jerk the door open. “You can drive.”
“Don’t.” Jonathan, looking earnestly tortured, reaches for me. “Talk to me, please?”
His smooth hand lying effortlessly against my skin is luring me in.
My body responds to him without permission. It takes effort to redirect my focus, and think of anything else beside the way his lips move when he says my name. I don’t know if there is something more to this guy than warm-tinglies. I don’t want to know. I can’t afford to wait around until he quits on me too.
“I can feel your heart,” he says, his voice is little more than a whisper.
Seconds pass. Jonathan waits on me expectantly.
But what do I say to that? “The only thing I feel right now is lost. I have no compass outside of fixing Lindy. And since she and my family are hostages, essentially, then I don’t—I can’t—I…”
“This isn’t about your family. This is about you. How do you feel? What do you want?” Jonathan pounds a fist on his chest.
“How do I feel?” I repeat. “I feel I need some time to assess the situation.”
“Wow, assess the situation.” Jonathan’s jaw tightens as he slumps back in his seat. “I’m sorry. I guess I misread the signals.”
“No you didn’t,” a voice in my head says.
“Irkalla? Is that you? Can you hear me? Where are you?” I think all at once.
No one answers.
Hearing voices that aren’t there is obviously a sign of severe trauma. At SEEK suspicion is a useful tool to hunt the enemy—but since nothing about SEEK has turned out to be right, I’m certain I’m just being paranoid. Jonathan might be right. I need rest.
And then all at once the air whooshes from my chest as the source of my stress makes itself known. There should be helicopters circling right now. SEEK knows the Highway Patrol was chasing us. “They’re planning an ambush!”
Jonathan lurches forward, looking for a military grade attack mounting on the horizon. No police lights whirl in the distance and no searchlights spin around the starry sky. For a moment we share a silent look, one that says we’re in agreement, and then he snatches up his laptop, assaulting the keyboard once more.
I wait for him to tell me we’re fine. That everything’s going to be alright.
“Dangit, I can’t see what they’re planning. They’re communicating old-school.”
“They who? What do you mean old-school?”
“SEEK and the Brotherhood. They’re running codes. I’ve never seen them do this before. It almost looks like binary code. But it isn’t. Is this familiar to you?”
The computer screen is nothing but meaningless dashes and digits. I shake my head. “No. But, can’t you crack it?”
Jonathan rubs his face, noisily. “Unfortunately, no. Not without a cipher.”
We sit in silence, each staring out the window. Jonathan pecks at his laptop. I find a new fingernail to chew off.
“You gotta help me out here. I’m way out of my element. What do we do? We can’t just sit here in this cornfield. The sun will be up soon. We’re chump bait out here without any cover. There aren’t even any woods to get lost in.”
“We should keep on to the airport. If they’ve worked out that I have a plane, there’s no way they know where I’m keeping it. I made sure of that. They’d have to station a team at every airport.”
“I’m not so sure SEEK couldn’t pull that off,” I mutter, putting a hand on the door handle. “You’re sure?”
“I’m positive.”
I nod and swing the door open.
“Hey, Keira?”
I turn to him, instead of watching what the heck I’m doing, and sink shin-deep into what feels like hungry mud. “Ugh!” I grab for the door but slip. Wet soil soaks clear through my jeans in a second flat. Goosebumps prickle down my thighs. “Cold! It’s cold!”
Jonathan clambers over the console, leans out the door, and peers down at me. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m…” I start to say fine, but then I see Jonathan’s betrayal.
At first there’s a tiny little twinge in his eyes and then his whole face erupts in laughter. In one swipe, I whisk his hands off the door handle and send him tumbling into a deep mound of soggy mulch next to me.
“No!”Jonathan snorts, still laughing as he scoops up a handful of earth and packs it like a snowball.
“You wouldn’t!” I cringe, ducking as the mud-ball sails and splatters against my shoulder. The wet soaks clear through my sweatshirt, dripping from my hair.
“You think that’s funny?” I squeal, packing a fist full of mud and plowing it into his chest.
“Uncle,” Jonathan wheezes, slumping over with a finger in the air.
I shouldn’t have fallen for it, but the next second I’m hit by a flying ball of dripping corn sludge in the left shoulder. Droplets of muck spray my face.
“You look like Hedorah!” Jonathan shouts between howls of laughter.
“Who?” I wipe my hand over my mouth.
“You know, the sludge monster from Godzilla?”
I have no idea what he’s yammering on about, but seeing Jonathan standing in the headlights, splattered in mud and slimy corn bits gives me an idea. “We need camouflage!”
Camouflage
Four and a half hours later—after four bottled waters, one ruined silver scarf and a change of clothes—we roll into Lancaster Pennsylvania, the sun streaming over the flat-roofed buildings. I scope out the shop windows, most of which sell Amish furniture and quilts, while Jonathan drives.
“What exactly are we looking for?” Jonathan rolls down his window.
I sniff the air. The wafting smell of bacon and bread entices my stomach.
“A gift shop. Park here!” I say, spotting a black, horse-drawn buggy at the curb in front of an “Amish Farm and House” sign hanging over a black door.
The bell on the door tinkles as we enter.
“Now what?” Jonathan whispers, curiously peering around a bin of homemade sweets.
“I told you. Camouflage,” I answer, grinning mischievously.
“Something tells me I should be worried.” Recognition lights Jonathan’s face when he spots the Amish menswear lining the back of the shop.
Feeling smugly triumphant, I nod and saunter through the women’s clothing, grabbing three dresses that look identical, aside from color, and dash into the dressing room. I chose the drabbest blue, the least conspicuous option, figuring I’ll look equally ridiculous in all of them. After wresting the buttons into place I pull back the hand-stitched curtain and find Jonathan leaning against a split-timber post.
The sight of him in too-short navy slacks, a wide-collared lace-up shirt and a straw hat is more than I can take in my sleep-deprived state of mind. I clamp a hand over my mouth.
“Oh fine, laugh, but they’re actually surprisingly comfortable. And look at you.” Jonathan eyes me up and down, biting his lip.
“Don’t you dare!” I glower, turning to the full-length mirror on the tongue and groove wall.
He laughs, slinging an arm around my neck as if we’re posing for a couple’s portrait.
Just then the clerk turns up carrying a white bonnet. “You must have hair covered to dress like Amish,” the rotund woman says in a thick Pennsylvania Dutch accent.
“Oh. Um, thanks,” I mutter.
Jonathan takes the cap, clearing the laughter from his throat. “Let me.” Softly, he lays the delicate linen over my head, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear and examining the results. “Perfect.”
“Nee,” the shop owner snaps, muttering something in her native tongue as she rummages in a Mason jar for some bobby pins.
“Right, you’re not done until it’s securely fastened to your head,” Jonathan says dramatically, then whispers in my ear as he slides the clip on. “Do you think she knows who we are?”
“Not a
chance,” I whisper back. “No TVs or radios.”
“Right. Good thinking,” he says, handing the woman two one-hundred dollar bills. “Thanks, keep the change for your trouble.”
“Segne. Bless—bless. Danki,” she says with a smile. Then she’s bustling around us, snipping off the tags like we’re her favorite patrons.
I peer through the window at the row of horse and buggies. My stomach turning to knots. “Maybe tourists don’t do this. Won’t two Amish people climbing into a fancy SUV look suspicious?” I ask as we step out of the shop, door chimes bidding us goodbye.
Jonathan grabs my hand, ducking in between cars, and opens the back the hatch of the Hummer. “We’re young—we’ll say we’re on Rumspringa.”
“We’re on what? Is that a drug?” I stare at him blankly.
Jonathan chuckles. “No! It’s when Amish kids get to go into the world and see if they want to be English or Amish.”
“Oh.” I frown at the sidewalk, wondering why he would know that.
“Maybe we should wait to leave, have some breakfast.”
“We should have breakfast.” My mouth waters at the memory of bacon somewhere nearby.
“Look. We can watch the car to make sure no one is following us.” Jonathan points to the little diner across the street.
***
After I devour the best Eggs Benedict I’ve ever had I watch the people. It seems like a sleepy little town full of normal people going about their normal lives.
I had that once.
A grinding pit of homesickness stirs in my stomach. Remorse for my family whisked away from their lives. They know everything about me by now. How I was never in college. How I’ve been lying to them for over a year. I can imagine the disappointment on Dad’s face as he looks at Mom, as though my mistakes are somehow her fault.
“No one’s blaming you,” the second voice in my head says sending goosebumps up my neck.
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