Found and Lost (17 page)

28

After curling up on the bed for a while, Violet got up and opened the window. Birdsong floated in. Through the lattice roof of the deck, Khloe was easy to watch. She'd collected paper, pencil, and what looked like a hardcover coffee-table book for a lap desk. The porch swing moved in the breeze as Khloe bent her head over the paper. Her pencil scurried.

Someone tapped on the door. Must be Belinda. “Come in.”

Chuck. He lumbered in and leaned against the wall.

“Time to go.”

To go somewhere else chosen by Marcus. She'd jump out of his truck at the first red light, before she could become another grave in the woods.

No, she didn't really believe that. Willingness to kidnap wasn't the same as willingness to murder.

Regardless, she'd be out of that truck before he could stop her. The first chance she got.

When she didn't respond, Chuck joined her at the window. “She's an artist?”

Violet nodded.

“How about you?”

“Stick figures. Houses with inaccurate shadows.” She'd never noticed her lighting errors until Khloe pointed them out. Sometimes, she still doodled while Khloe sketched, purposely creating top-heavy buildings so Khloe would give them the guinea-pig laugh.

“I told Marcus it's not right to separate sisters, but he said you're not.”

Violet kept her gaze out the window. Khloe was shading now, broad sweeps of the pencil tilted almost sideways. “We're both seventeen. Khloe just looks young. Hormone deficiency.”

“Now that makes more sense.”

“She's staying with you?”

“For now. It was her choice.”

Of course it was. Violet leaned her forehead against the screen, letting the wire mesh imprint on her skin. “Are you a Christian?”

He didn't answer for a moment. “Can't say I am.”

“I went into your study. I found your Bible.”

“How about that.” Chuck ambled back to the bed and sat on the edge. “It's not mine, actually. Marcus gave it to me a few months ago, when I started badgering him about what it said.”

“Is it really two thousand years old?”

He chuckled. “The physical copy? Of course not. The words? At least that old, and I guess a lot of the books in the first half are even older.”

Two thousand years old. The Progressive United Version, government-funded and government-sanctioned, had been published in Violet's lifetime, or shortly before it. Repairing the ancient text. But everyone who'd lived before now, hundreds, thousands of years ago—they'd only had the ancient version. Had God's message to them been flawed?

Weird that she'd never wondered before.

“Anyway, yes, I'm reading it. And I'll make up my own mind in my own time, just like you have to do.”

“I've already made up my mind.”

Chuck pushed to his feet. “Seems to me, you don't have enough information yet for that.”

She knew what her next question should be.
So what do the old Bibles say?
But those words wouldn't come.

“Come on downstairs,” Chuck said.

“Can I ask you one more thing first?”

He shrugged.

“You said you wouldn't follow Marcus anymore, if he did this. If he kidnapped me.”

“That's not a question.”

But the shifting from one foot to the other betrayed his answer anyway. And he knew she knew.
Austin, I did it. I really did it.
She had identified the resistance leader. Did the Constabulary know how organized their enemy was? That a chain of command had formed, led by some ordinary guy in his thirties?

Marcus's truck was running out in the driveway. He already sat behind the wheel. Violet climbed inside, and Chuck shut the door. She searched in front of her, craned her neck behind, checked both side windows.

Khloe wasn't here.

“I told her we were leaving,” Marcus said quietly.

And she hadn't wanted even to say good-bye. Violet breathed through the threat of tears until her eyes no longer burned.

“What about Lee?” And Belinda. Not that Violet could say anything to them.

“Lee?” He put the truck in gear and started down the driveway. “She's okay. I think she's taking care of Wren and the baby.”

Violet would never see any of them again. Not that it mattered.

A few miles from the house, now on blacktop but still in rural territory, Violet rested her elbow on the half-open window and watched him drive. He looked like he was gritting his teeth.

“Marcus?”

“Yeah.”

“Where's the new place? How far is it?”

His right hand latched onto his neck. The only sound was the wind, rushing at the window and
whoosh
ing as cars passed from the other direction. Violet's body was coiled for the first red light, but every one was green. Or yellow, and Marcus passed under it just in time.

“You can't do this,” she said. “You can't kidnap me and not even tell me where you're taking me.”

No response.

Violet folded her arms. “You'd better tell them, whoever they are, that this is against my will and they're going to have to tie me to a chair and gag me and lock me in a closet.”

“Stop.” It was more a bark than a word.

Violet rubbed her thumb over her bracelet. They drove without music. Once, they had to brake for a tractor hauling a hay wagon. The guy in overalls—yeah, actual overalls—drove down the center of the road as if he weren't in the way. While Violet was still deciding if she could jump out of the truck without killing herself, Marcus sped up and passed the tractor. The sweet scent of hay filled the truck cab for a few minutes afterward.

They drove on M-53 south for miles. As they exited, Marcus gripped his neck again.

“I'm taking you to a public place. You can call your parents to pick you up. Or the police or the Constabulary, whoever you want.”

“You're … letting me go? Why?”

He didn't speak again until he pulled into the parking lot of a long, flat plaza, starting with Kroger on one end and ending with Dairy Queen on the other. He parked the truck to face the stores, tailgate toward the road, and pulled a Ziploc bag from his glove box.

“You have your phone, right?”

She'd nearly forgotten it on the nightstand, useless as it was, but at the last minute she slipped it into her pocket. Her name was scribbled on the bag from which Marcus shook the guts of the phone. Violet handed over the shell.

He made quick work of reassembling it with the same tiny screwdriver he'd used before. Before sliding the battery in, he put the screwdriver away and met her eyes.

“You've got no reason to do me a favor. But I'm asking.”

Of course he was. He wanted her to walk away as if none of this had happened. Violet straightened her spine and tried to glare at him.

Marcus reattached the phone battery and waited for it to power up. “You said you don't think they need re-education. Belinda and Lee. Do you think the same thing about Chuck?”

“I … I guess not. I mean, I guess he doesn't.”

His shoulders caved slightly. “Okay. Good.”

Her phone vibrated and chimed again and again, texts and voicemails pinging in. Marcus tapped something on the screen.

“Don't read my—”

“I'm not.” Another bark. He was typing a note. His thumbs were broad, and he had to backspace twice. He handed her the phone.

An address on Marina Street, wherever that was.

“My name's Marcus Brenner. That's my home address.”

Violet's fingers trembled around the phone. “I don't get it.” But she did.

“When you go to the Constabulary, if they ask where you've been, give them that address. And let everybody else—” His voice broke.

Violet looked up from the phone. His calm expression was betrayed by the death grip of both his hands on the back of his neck.

He cleared his throat. “Turn me in, just me. Please.”

This was his favor. Violet gave a slow nod.

“You'll do it?” Marcus said.

“Yeah.”

His grip eased around his neck, but his nod was stiff. Of course, he didn't fully believe her. He'd probably leave her here and rush to warn Chuck of the danger, if he hadn't already.

“Marcus, you said you wouldn't let me go.”

“I know.”

“But now you are.”

“I know.”

“Because of Chuck and Lee?”

“No. I mean, yeah, probably a little.”

“Why else?” Why did she care?

He sighed. “I don't know. I guess mostly because of Jesus.”

Uh … what?

Marcus jerked a nod toward the passenger door. “You should go.”

She tried to answer, but her throat was too tight. She got out of the truck and walked toward the Dairy Queen. They'd let her use the phone, especially if she said she'd been kidnapped.

Except she hadn't been. And she didn't need to use their phone, because hers had been returned.

At the door, she glanced back. Marcus watched her. Two teen guys exited, releasing a chime from the bell above the door and a gust of air conditioning. They sidestepped her without a glance her way, and the door closed again. Its glass reflected the red truck as Marcus drove away.

29

The familiar ringback played in her ear, some elitist classical piece she'd always mocked that now flooded her eyes with tears.
Please pick up.
He should. He'd texted her nine times and left three voicemails in the last two days.

“Violet?”

Thank You, God!
“Austin.”

“Where are you? Where were you? What happened?”

“Can—can you come get me?”

“Where? Are you safe? Are you okay?”

“The Kroger at the corner of Mound and … I think it's Twenty-Five Mile? I'm standing in front of the Dairy Queen.”

“I'm on my way now. Babe, please, tell me you're okay.”

“I'm good.” She swallowed the tears that tried to block her words. No falling apart.

“Be there in ten minutes. Don't go anywhere.”

“I won't.”

But neither of them hung up. Violet sat on a wooden bench as two grade-school girls dashed up to the Dairy Queen window, one wearing a tank and shorts, the other smoothing her hand over her sundress.

“I want chocolate.”

“I want caramel.”

Maybe when they were older, they'd learn to appreciate fruit smoothies. A would-be sob crushed Violet's chest.

“Violet.” Austin's voice shook. Think what he'd been through, not knowing if her mission had gotten her murdered by Christians.
Why does everybody believe they're all the same?
“Violet, talk to me.”

“I'm good.”

“I'm almost there.”

His nine-year-old car was beige and squat and could only belong to a college commuter. His bumper stickers aided the impression. Violet had mocked him for all this in addition to his ringback tone, but his car pulled up to the curb worth more than any limousine. She flew to the passenger side and motioned him to unlock the doors before he'd fully stopped. The locks clicked. She threw the door open and leaped inside and slammed it shut.

And burst into tears.

Austin rubbed her back, and she leaned across the console, into his arm. Still, she wasn't close enough.

“Sorry, I don't know what's wrong with me, I just …” Stupid sobs, sticking in her throat.

Austin put the car in park. “Hey, hey. Talk to me. Tell me what happened to you.”

Something had happened, all right, something that had torn her whole head apart. She knew she was supposed to turn them all in, was supposed to want to. But right now, all she wanted was to understand them, all of them, Marcus and Lee and Chuck and Belinda. They didn't make any sense.

“Okay,” Austin said. “You want me to take you home?”

“No.” The word shoved past her shaking and her tears. “No, not yet. I—I have to talk to someone. I have to talk to you.”

His hand cupped the back of her head and caressed her hair. “Where to?”

Somewhere they could say anything. Nowhere public. “Your apartment. I've never seen it. I don't even know where it is.”

“Violet …”

“We'll be safe there.”

He regarded her a long moment, and he probably would have said no in any circumstance but this one. Worry creased his face, and he was older today than the last time they'd been together. But so was she.

He sighed, a consent. “Okay. But you're safe with me no matter where you are.”

Violet laid her head on his shoulder. “I know.”

 

Austin's apartment was on the second floor of a brick complex that, even from the outside, looked as tidy and no-nonsense as he was. He led her up the foyer stairs, fumbled with his keys before finding the right one, and motioned her over the threshold with a smile that skipped her heartbeat.

Violet would have expected solid bookshelves along every wall of his one-bedroom unit, but the living room surprised her, split into half-study, half-gym. The bathroom furnishings included one set of white towels and one white rug. More like a hotel than a home.

They meandered into the living room. Austin sprawled in a beanbag chair and motioned her to the pillow-back couch. “Do you need anything? Lunch?”

“Later.” She sank down onto the center cushion, leaned back, and closed her eyes.

“Did someone hurt you?” Austin said quietly.

She shook her head. He stood and crossed the room to sit beside her, and Violet leaned into his shoulder. Maybe she didn't want to talk at all. Maybe she could stay here for a day, think things through, sleep on the couch tonight, and then in the morning … do what she had to do.

She did have to do it. Right?

“Violet?”

“You don't have to worry about me. Nobody hurt me.”

They didn't move for long minutes. As tension melted from her muscles and sleep blanketed her, Austin's lips touched her hair. Then lowered to her neck. She burrowed closer, and warmth filled her.

“Yesterday,” he whispered, “I had this thought that maybe you were dead.”

She reached up to pull his head down. Their lips met, and she tasted coffee. Austin deepened the kiss. Closer, she wanted to be closer. Together. Safe. Wanted. Her breath was gone, but she didn't stop. She squirmed away from his arm around her back and grabbed his warm hand.
Here.
She pushed it under her shirt. He inched his hand up to her breastbone. Violet pressed against him.

He withdrew his hand and pulled back with a ragged breath. “Violet.”

“Hmm?” She kissed him again, but he angled his face away.

“We can't,” he said.

“I'm not a kid, especially not after this week.”

“What?” The blue of his eyes seemed to darken. His hand clenched.

Oh, good grief. “I didn't mean like
that
. Just … that I've learned … that I've …” Why couldn't she tell him?

“Let's start at the beginning. Where have you been? Did someone take you? Did you escape?”

See, there, that was why. Because she didn't know how to answer any of those questions. Had she been at Chuck and Belinda's? Had she been at Marcus's house? Austin would never believe the resistance leader had let her go. Maybe she could distract both of them for now and deal with this later. She leaned closer for a kiss. He turned away. Again.

Violet pushed up from the couch and stood. “Why don't you want me?”

“You know I—”

“Just tell me what's wrong with me, maybe I can fix it.”

“Are you serious? Violet, you're beautiful.”

Oh, please. Outright lying was the last thing she'd ever expected from Austin. “If I'm so beautiful, have sex with me.”

With a half groan, he turned away from her.

He didn't want her, not like that. Considering everything she'd learned and lost lately, this realization shouldn't have mattered so much, but it was a final weight, tossed onto the pile of things she couldn't carry for one more minute. She turned and rushed down the hall, past the bathroom to Austin's bedroom, the only other room in this place with a door. She locked it.

“Violet.” The knob rattled. “Hey. Come on.”

“You never should have dated me if you didn't want me.”

A soft sliding sound, down to the floor. He must be slouched against the door. “You're misinterpreting all of this.”

“It doesn't need interpreting, Austin. It's pretty clear.”

Tears pushed for release. She swiped at them and smeared them all over her stupid face. Three crying bouts in two days, and she couldn't even blame hormones. A sob heaved in her shoulders, but Austin shouldn't hear her blubbering. She buried the mutiny inside and planted her feet apart until her legs stopped shaking. Until the tears stopped squeezing from her clenched eyelids.

She opened her eyes and noticed the four walls around her for the first time, the filled bookshelves, the lamp and nightstand hewn of a stained wood that belonged more in a resort cabin than an apartment. On one wall, a painting depicted the outstretched arms of two men. One reached slightly upward from the left, and one reached slightly downward from the right. In the center of the painting, their hands nearly touched.

“It's fine,” she said to the closed door. “You can go date other people. Don't feel bad about it.”

“Will you stop? I don't want to date other people.”

Tears surged back at his frustration. If only she knew he meant it. But really, he'd never given her reason not to believe him. He wasn't the one who'd shaken her up like a snow globe. Maybe doubting one thing led her to doubt the whole universe. Violet stepped toward the door, then stopped. Seeing her tear-smudged face would make him feel worse.

“Violet?”

“Is there any Kleenex in here?”

The nightstand was bare, other than the lamp. Violet tugged open the drawer.

Her heart overturned.

A handgun. Small. Snapped into a holster with a folded strap. Not for a belt, then. She poked the holster strap, and it slithered to its full length. Cop movies were educational, after all: this was a shoulder holster.

Wait a minute.

Cop movies.

An edge of gold winked at her from under the shoulder strap. She pulled at it, and her thumb grazed the cold metal of the gun. She shuddered. Two fingers lifted the badge from the drawer. The badge with words embossed on a gold shield.

Michigan Philosophical Constabulary. US Department of Justice.