Crimson Eve (16 page)
“Have you told anyone?”
“No way.”
“You’ve told no one you’re pregnant.”
“No.”
He rolled away, sat up, his back to me. I stared at the way his spine stuck through his skin. He put his head in his hands and stayed there for a long time.
I touched him on the shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”
No reply.
Tears stung my eyes. I sat there looking at him, feeling very alone. Like a wall had gone up between us. He’d never been mad at me before. I couldn’t stand it.
“I’ll do whatever you want.” My voice shook. “Just tell me, and I’ll do it.”
He pulled in a long breath. When he turned to me, he looked grim. “Do you love me, Carla?”
That hurt so much. “You know I do.”
“I’ve trusted you. All my life I’ve worked my way up the political ladder. Even as a boy I knew what I wanted to do. I’ve laid it all on the line to be with you. Don’t betray me.”
“I
won’t
.” Tears fell down my cheeks.
He leaned over me, put his hands on my face. His eyes turned misty. “You want to be with me again, don’t you?”
“Yes,
always
.”
Bryson stroked my forehead. “I want to be with you too.”
I was sobbing by then. “I’ll have an abortion if you want. I just . . . I don’t have the money to pay for it.”
“I know.”
“Is that what you want me to do?”
He gazed into my eyes. “Do you want an abortion?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know. I think they’re awful, but . . .”
He wiped my tears. “I couldn’t make you do something you would regret.”
“Then — ”
“Shh.” Bryson stroked my hair. “Look, let’s not panic. Sometimes those home tests don’t work so well. The first thing you need to do is go to a doctor for a test. I’ll pay for it. You can go to the same one Catherine goes to — Dr. Hughes. He’s the best doctor around. I’ve known him since I was a kid. Our families are very close, and he’s almost like a father to me. He’s also one of my biggest supporters. His practice is closed to new patients, but I’ll get you in.”
“Then won’t he know — ”
“You still have that boyfriend?”
I blinked. No way did I want to talk about Scott, especially not in the middle of this conversation. “Yes.”
Suspicion crept across Bryson’s face. “If you are pregnant, how do you know it’s not his?”
“I
told
you the first time we were together that Scott and I hadn’t done anything.”
He studied my face. “But now you are. Aren’t you. It’s written all over you.”
I wanted to run out of the cabin. Melt into the covers. How I wished I hadn’t said anything to him. But now it was too late, and I wasn’t going to lose him. I thought about telling him Scott and I hadn’t slept together until
after
I’d been with him. But suddenly I didn’t trust Bryson. What if he wouldn’t listen? What if he insisted the baby was Scott’s and walked away?
He leaned toward me, expression hardening. “
Aren’t
you?”
“
No
. And you’d better believe that, Bryson Hanley. Scott’s . . . shy. This baby’s
yours
.”
He pulled back, gaze holding mine. I refused to look away. A series of emotions flicked across his face. Doubt. Fear. And something else.
Triumph?
“All right, Carla. You said you’d do whatever I want.”
No way could I lose him. My life would be over. I nodded.
“Start sleeping with your boyfriend. And do it often.”
My eyes went wide. Numbness crept through my chest.
“I’ll set you up with Dr. Hughes. I’ll tell him you’re afraid your boyfriend’s got you pregnant, and I’m trying to help you out.”
Well, what a twist. He wanted me to “start” what I was already doing. What I’d denied so hard. But how could Bryson
want
me to sleep with Scott? Wouldn’t he feel jealous at all? And why did he think I needed to anyway? Why wasn’t he willing to just lie to the doctor?
He ran a finger down my cheek. “Will you do it?”
I swallowed. Then nodded.
He smiled. “That’s my girl.”
I’m not stupid. I was just so distracted by the lies I’d told and Bryson’s reaction to everything. By the time I got home I understood all too well. If anyone else found out I was pregnant, they had to have reason to believe it was Scott’s. Including Scott himself.
How ironic — the trap I’ve gotten myself into. And how unfair that Scott will pay.
Tonight I went out with Scott. Parked with him in the forest as usual. We had sex. He told me he loved me, and I said I loved him. I started to cry and of course couldn’t explain why. As sweet as he’s been to me. As much as he loves me, and look what I’m doing to him. What I will do to him.
But there’s no backing out now.
God will punish me for this.
Every muscle in Carla’s body shook. Her brain flip-flopped from numb to panic. She could smell her fear. She felt like a mouse running from a cat, knowing death was on her heels.
Thornby’s black SUV kept a steady three car lengths behind her. Close enough for her to see the victorious expression on his face. The guy was practically salivating.
Carla stepped on the gas. Thornby sped up with her.
Cars from the opposite direction passed every minute or so. Apparently often enough to keep Thornby from doing anything wild. But that could change any moment. What she needed was a car
ahead
of her. Miles passed, but she saw none. Finally, as she rounded a curve, she spotted one about a half mile ahead.
She pushed the accelerator like some race car driver, fingers glued to the wheel. Thornby stayed with her. The Toyota’s speedometer read seventy, eighty, eighty-five, ninety miles per hour. Golden hills whizzed by. Before long she’d closed the distance. Carla eased off the gas until her speed fell back to sixty, positioning herself three lengths behind the blue sedan.
Take that, Mr. Fake Englishman
.
A speed-limit sign soon slowed the trio down. Carla swiped sweat from her forehead as they entered Steptoe, a tiny burg with a few houses and a church with a pretty white steeple. A Shell gas station with a Friendly Mart. All so qu
iet and normal. The few people on the street, the man coming out of the small store —they’d never guess the death dance between these three cars.
What if she swerved into the gas station and jumped from her car? Ran screaming into the mart — “He’s trying to kill me!” Would Thornby follow? Would he shoot her and everyone else inside? Even so, maybe she’d have a chance . . .
Whatever, Carla, just save yourself!
Her hands poised to turn the wheel —
A young mother with a baby in her arms stepped out of the Friendly Mart.
Carla’s fingers jerked. The Toyota shot past the store.
Tears bit Carla’s eyes. She slumped back against the seat, despair steamrolling her muscles.
Before she knew it, they’d passed the town.
The sedan in front of her gleamed in the sun, one remaining ray of hope. At least it hadn’t turned into some driveway. Hills rolled by on either side, large silos jutting into blue sky.
A sign read “Spokane, 47 miles.”
She’d never live that long.
For the hundredth time Carla glanced in the rearview mirror. Thornby’s car was still three lengths behind her.
Cell phone
. The sudden thought sprang to her mind.
Yes, cell phone! No point in keeping off it now that Thornby had caught her. In fact, the right call just might save her life. She could contact the Spokane police, then drive straight to their station.
Eyes on the road, Carla fumbled in her purse for the phone.
Call any law enforcement, someone in Vince Edwards’s family
dies.
Okay, call friends and acquaintances then. Lots of them. Thornby couldn’t kill them all. Phone her work, and Java Joint, and Simple Pleasures, and ten other businesses in Kanner Lake. Tell everyone if something happened to he
r, they should look for a dark-haired man named David Thornby in a rented black Durango . . .
Right, Carla, like that’s a valid ID. Your calls won’t scare him
off, ’cause he knows he won’t be found
.
No, huh-uh. She couldn’t believe that. Carla’s fingers scrambled. Where the heck was her phone? She felt wallet, checkbook, makeup bag — déjà vu of yesterday’s frantic search for her car key.
There!
She yanked the cell out, snapped it open. Pushed the button to turn it on . . .
No ser vice. And her battery was almost shot.
“No!” She shook it, turned it this way and that.
No bars.
Fear blew through her like a winter wind, and her bones rattled. Carla fought to keep calm. No time to wig out now; she had to
think
.
She threw the cell on top of the suitcase. Okay, okay. Cell service faded in and out. The minute she got a bar or two, she’d call.
Blue sedan, white Toyota, black Durango. The Highway 195 trio, locked in their dance, one partner not even knowing the part he played.
They passed a rest area on the left. Rest — what was that? Highway 271 south toward Rosalia exited on the right. Carla didn’t dare swerve onto it. She needed to stay behind the sedan.
Spokane — thirty-two miles.
What would she do when she reached the city? Could she lose Thornby in traffic?
If so, what then?
The truth hit her like a rogue wave. Fact was, it didn’t matter. Thornby would keep coming back. Again and again. And if she put him out of business — killed him, even — someone else would take his place. She wasn’t dying for some 007 knock-off. She was dying for the empire of Bryson Hanley
. Who would only become more powerful, and therefore more afraid of the damage she could do with each passing day.
There was only one last-ditch way to save her life. Expose Hanley. Give up the diary, tell the world what she knew.
Carla’s throat crimped shut. She couldn’t do it. Couldn’t sacrifice herself to the gossip-hungry world. Couldn’t expose other innocent people. Couldn’t,
wouldn’t
do it.
Her cell beeped twice. Was she in range now? Carla picked up the phone, feeling a stir of hope.
Still no ser vice. She’d heard the low-battery warning.
Carla let out a long breath, her hope slipping away. No one to run to, no way to call anyone. She was safe in her car only as long as she drove, with other vehicles around.
Her gas gauge read less than a quarter tank.
She dropped the cell back into her purse. A few minutes later, with two final beeps, it turned itself off.
The trio of cars passed a tiny area called Spangle. A restaurant, houses, a few silos. Spokane was eighteen miles away.
If only she’d never told Bryson Hanley he was the father of her baby. If only she’d stayed with Scott. At least when the pregnancy was over and the world closed down around her, she could have clung to him.
How about it, Bryson? If it weren’t for the pregnancy, would you
let me live today?
Carla’s mind dulled. She barely noticed the rolling hills giving way to flat land and forest, houses popping up. She snapped out of it when the highway divided into two lanes each direction.
They were nearing Spokane.
The blue sedan turned off, but it no longer mattered. More cars pulled onto the road from this or that entrance, traffic doubling, tripling. Carla saw more houses, stores. A sign reduced the speed limit to fifty-five. Then another sign: Interstate 90 — one mile.
Interstate 90 dissected Spokane, running east and west. Her gas gauge was approaching an eighth of a tank.
Carla, babe, better figure out what you’re going to do.
I can’t believe what Bryson wants me to do.
For the first time in three weeks, I got to be with him at the cabin. He’s been out of town a lot. The closest I could get to him was watching him on the news, shaking hands and charming everybody as usual. But after the test at the doctor’s office confirmed I’m pregnant and Bryson came back, he still kept telling me he couldn’t get away. Didn’t he want me anymore? I was crying every day. And I’ve been sick. Every morning. It’s awful, throwing up when I’m trying to get ready for school. It usually passes after my first class. But I’ve been tired and
so
depressed, just waiting to see Bryson. Knowing I have to get money from him for an abortion.
Mary Kay knows I’m pregnant. I couldn’t hide it from her anymore. Of course she thinks the baby is Scott’s. What a two-faced —make that three-faced — game I’m playing. If anyone knew how complicated this whole thing really is.
This morning Mom attacked me. She’s heard me throwing up so it’s not like I could deny it. She stood there in her bathrobe, smoker-hacking as usual, black hair uncombed and all those lines on her hard face. She looks so much older than thirty-three. She slouched in my bedroom doorway and gave me one of her “you disgust me” looks.
“Don’t even try tellin’ me you’re not pregnant.”
I slumped on my bed, sweaty, with a sour taste in my mouth. Too sick to talk.
“Well?”
I raised my head and looked at her. Tears stung my eyes, but I blinked them back. I will not cry in front of my mother. “You shouldn’t be surprised.” My voice sounded dead. “You did the same thing at my age.”
Anger screwed up her face. “Don’t you talk to me like that!”
“Like
what
? I’m just telling the truth!”
Her eyes closed, as if she could hardly contain her disappointment. Breath sucked in and out of her mouth. “Whose is it?”
What, like she should think I’ve been sleeping with the world? “Whose do you think?”
“Does he know?”
“No.”
“Good. Get yourself an abortion before he does and get rid of the thing. A good Catholic boy like him might give you a hard time about it.”
The “good Catholic boy” dripped with sarcasm, but I hardly noticed. She’d called the baby a “thing.” A
thing
. Suddenly it hit me. When she was my age, if she’d had an abortion, if she’d treated me like a “thing” to get rid of — I wouldn’t
be
here.
“What makes you think I want an abortion?”
She stared at me. “What do you know about raising a baby?”
