Found and Lost (19 page)

32

The agent's voice, not quite sure, snapped Clay from his paralysis. He ducked under the reception tent flap and dashed between tables, to the silent artist in black jeans amid the swirl of cocktail dresses and boldly colored ties. He grabbed Natalia's arm and jerked her to her feet.

“They're here. We have to go.”

A few heads turned, but wine and music averted the rest. That and the desire not to see anything tonight that would ruin their celebration. Natalia ran to the table where Clay had been sitting and grabbed the camera bag. Clay dragged her through the tent, toward the open end. By the time they emerged under moon and stars, brightened by the distance from suburbia, she had gained her stride and ran beside him, fingers linked through his. A flashlight beam swung wildly behind them, lit the grass ahead. They dodged left, then right, together, no words needed to convey the path.

They reached the Jeep a hundred feet ahead of the agents. Clay leaped inside, waited for the slamming of the passenger door, and turned the key.

“Nat, you can go back. If you want to.”

She gulped a quiet breath, as if he'd hit her. He was only trying to do the right thing.

“Drive,” she whispered.

He jammed the Jeep into gear and floored it down the long dirt driveway, onto the dirt road. Headlights didn't appear in his rearview until he was about to turn, heading for the highway. He'd left them behind.

“Clay, we … just …”

“Became fugitives?”

Natalia curled forward, head in her arms. “I was going to be here for her. When she came home.”

Why had she followed him, then? She could have stayed behind, waited for Khloe's release, stitched a new life around the hole of her runaway husband until the fabric mended itself. He tried not to press a hand to his stomach, but the ache had started to burn. He drove one-handed.

An anonymous hotel room was easier to book than Clay had expected, thanks to Natalia's quick thinking. The camera case contained an envelope of cash—the last half of Natalia's payment, offered with an apology from a member of the bride's family (
“and there's a little bonus for the delay”
). Clay gave a folded bunch of twenties to the hotel desk clerk and stopped before Natalia's maiden name came out of his mouth. The Constabulary would know that. Before his pause sounded like one, he blurted his mom's maiden name instead.

The luggage still in the Jeep held only one clothes change for each of them, but better than nothing. Once they got to the room, Natalia walked a slow perimeter, then collapsed onto the queen-sized bed and fingered the dark blue comforter. She gazed out the window into the darkness, where the traffic flowed below them. Clay crossed the room and blocked her view.

She stared at him, but their eyes didn't meet. For hours, she'd been slow-cooking words to a simmer, a boil. The tension of her shoulders, the tightness of her lips, promised a verbal volcano. He turned to lower the window blinds, then faced her again.

Natalia scooted farther back on the bed. “I'm not a criminal.”

“I know that.”

She stood, shuffled to the corner, lifted her suitcase and set it on the worn faux-wood desk. The folded stack of clothes didn't rise more than a few inches, but she lifted a top, refolded it, and tucked it into the dresser.

The room was too small for much physical distance. She stood just feet away, mango shampoo overpowering the faint vanilla room spray. With each fold of the fabric, a cord rippled in the back of her hand.

“Natalia, I—”

“I'm contemplating the rest of our lives. A year from now, we'll be a re-educated family. And either we'll have you home, or you'll be sitting stubbornly in custody, one of those re-education failure stories no one tells. Unable to be rehabilitated.”

“That's not going to happen.”

She refolded her Capri pants once, again, then pressed at a nonexistent wrinkle. “I don't know why I'm hiding out in a cheap hotel room when I should be turning myself in. Starting on re-education now. I could be finished the same time as Khloe. I could …”

Clay dropped onto the bed and bent forward, elbows on knees. Natalia couldn't possibly believe what she was saying. But if a person didn't believe in Christianity, didn't consider it the only absolute on which life itself was built … Well, they wouldn't evade capture forever. Turning themselves in might count toward clemency.

“You're not going to argue with me?” Natalia swiveled toward him and clutched the khaki fabric.

“You seriously want to go to the Constabulary and volunteer for re-education?”

“I don't think what I want has any bearing on what's going to happen.”

“They'll turn your head inside out. They'll try to make you a good little citizen of the globe without any original thoughts or—”

Natalia tossed the pants back into her suitcase and turned her back.

Clay rubbed his stomach. “I'm not wrong.”

Natalia unbuttoned her jeans. Whoa, wait a minute, that's not where they'd been heading two seconds ago. She perched on the edge of the bed to pull them off, still not facing him. Heat coursed through his body, but she pulled down the covers on the far side of the bed and crawled beneath them. Even with the air conditioning on, she'd overheat in ten minutes.

“Would you turn out the light, please?”

“Nat—”

“Whatever you're going to say, let's not say it.”

But I need to tell you. You're right, I can't last forever. Before this is over, I'll be handcuffed, arrested, re-educated.

Minutes later, Clay lay on his back, weighted by the down comforter and every choice he'd made since he'd asked Natalia to come with him to a Table meeting. Since he'd brought Khloe home from the hospital for the first time, a seven-pound bundle of open eyes and open soul, and then for the last time, a gaunt six-year-old miracle. Since he'd asked a perky art major with strawberry hair to see the drama department's production of
A Streetcar Named Desire
.

A few feet away, lying on the same mattress, the girl who'd grinned up at him and flipped her loose curls
—“Thought I was going to have to ask you”
—drew her knees up and shuddered out a sigh.

33

Good thing Violet's parents were predictable in their sleeping patterns. Sneaking into the house before two in the morning risked discovery, should Dad still be up watching his TV comedians. But it was past three now. She crept to the back porch and slid her hand along the grill, up under the tarp. Here it was, the spare key.

She let herself inside, and the door whispered closed behind her. Another good thing—neither of her parents were light sleepers.

She hadn't seen Mom and Dad in three days. They probably had talked to Clay and Natalia by now, but of course Khloe's parents wouldn't tell them the truth. Wow, what
had
they said? That Violet was with them and fine, but she couldn't come to the phone? That the girls had taken Clay's Jeep for a joy ride and hadn't been seen lately? Well, no one would believe that. Khloe was still on her permit. Violet had barely put in any hours with her license. Her bike still felt safer than all those cars in the oncoming lane that she could crash into with one wrong turn of the wheel. It turned out to be a plus, though. If she'd driven her car over to Khloe's instead of riding her bike, her keys would have been in her purse, left behind at the raided store.

There was so much her parents didn't know about her now.

She could tell them the truth. Not about the Hansens, but about herself. She'd gone undercover for the Constabulary. They might even be proud of her.

Should they be?

She padded to her room and plopped down onto the edge of the bed. Her feet ached. The walk from Austin's apartment had been at least five miles. In ballet flats.

She'd left the aquarium light on last time she'd fed her fish, and no one had shut it off since. She hoped they'd been fed at least, but probably not. Violet sprinkled pellets and flakes into the water. Her gaze traveled the room half-focused. The last time she'd stepped over that threshold, she'd snagged her charm bracelet from the necklace tree on the dresser, clipped it on, taken a fortifying breath, and stared at herself in the mirror. Told herself that this mission for the Constabulary would help people. Told herself that Khloe would never find out about it, that someday they'd be two wrinkly ladies sitting on a park bench watching the young people make out. Laughing at how, no matter what life threw at them, their friendship kept coming back, a perennial flower.

Fluorescent light undulated over the carpet, and the darts and flits of the fish showed as thin shadows. Violet braved a look into the mirror now as if her face might have changed, eyes grown old, hair streaked gray. But she just looked like a tired, flat, makeup-less version of herself. She lay on her bed, the pastel quilt soft under her hands. Maybe she could stay curled up here forever. The Christians could wage their quiet fight. The Constabulary could pursue them. She'd root for neither side.

Except one side had to be right. Which made the other side wrong.

What she'd done—she needed to know if it was noble and right. She needed to know who deserved her trust. Someone who left a Bible in plain sight, or someone who hid a Constabulary badge …

Or someone who gave her freedom so she could take his away.

She sat up. Oh, no. If she didn't file a final report with the Constabulary, Austin would know. Might even suspect her of shifting loyalty. She fed her fish again, as if she wouldn't be back here in a few hours. She put on socks and tennis shoes and changed into a fresh shirt. She took her car keys from the kitchen wall rack, and her hand trembled.
Yes, you have to drive. Get over it.
She relocked the house behind her and left.

Maybe she was speeding, because the drive only took her eleven minutes. Not even 4:00 yet. Did Constabulary agents work in shifts, or would it be her and the custodians until normal office hours? She parked behind the one-level brick building, half the lot away from the cluster of cars at one end. Clearly not the whole crew. When she cracked the windows, a faint breeze drifted into the car. Maybe she'd stay here for now and watch the sunrise.

The tapping on the window jerked her from a dream she instantly forgot. She sat up and squinted. Red rays of sun poured through the windshield, heating the car already. The clock said 7:52.

“Miss?”

A face loomed in the window. A lean, frowning black face. Violet drew back as if the man might reach for her through the glass.
Jumpy much? Chill already.

He held a badge up to the window. Agent Samuel Stiles, Michigan Philosophical Constabulary. “Everything all right?”

She'd only heard voices that deep from movie stars. She turned the key and rolled down the window. “I'm waiting for someone. To talk to someone.”

“I see. What's your name?”

“Violet DuBay.”

“Is that a fact? We've been looking for you, you know. Glad there was no need to worry.”

His dark eyes shone with a kindness beyond the courtesy. The tension in Violet's back seeped away. “No, there wasn't.”

“So, where have you been hiding?”

Violet opened the door and got out of the car. “I guess this should be official. You know, an interview.”

Agent Stiles nodded, straightened up taller than six feet. “Follow me.”

She expected to be taken in the front doors, but Agent Stiles led her to the side of the building and swiped an ID card to enter. She trailed him down a narrow hallway with glass windows and doors spaced along one side. On the wall beside each window hung a phone. The first few rooms were empty. Then they passed one that wasn't.

Janelle.

Violet hardly knew her feet had stopped. Janelle's hands were cuffed to the table. She faced the window but stared past Violet. These must be the window-mirrors used in cop shows. Violet could see into the room, but Janelle saw only her own reflection. Or not. Right now, she looked blind. And about ten years older than she had three nights ago, shoulders stooped, salt-and-pepper hair stringy against her head. Her head sagged, and her right hand tugged at the restraint. She bowed over and rested her forehead against the desk. A slow, hot churning started in Violet's stomach.

“Your text messages at work.” Agent Stiles's voice sounded even deeper when the hallway echoed it back.

“That's Janelle,” Violet said. As if he wouldn't know.

“Janelle Beers, arrested three nights ago, thanks to your mission for us.”

“Did she attack someone?”

“Oh, the cuffs? She's obstinate, that's all.”

But re-education was like school, not jail. Re-education involved classes. Therapy. Groups of people talking through the hate they'd been raised on until they could understand love instead.

Love. That growing ache seized her throat. Love like staying behind and barricading a door you knew your enemy would breach eventually, so your friends could escape even if it meant you would get chained to a table.

“Do all Christians … I mean, is this … Is Janelle in re-education right now?”

“She is. Sometimes, people cooperate right away. They're given a four-course meal and a shower and a bed to sleep in, in one of our group homes. They're kept for a few months, of course, but the treatment plan for them is more pleasant than the plan for someone like Janelle.”

“But …” Violet tried to look away, but the woman on the other side of the glass gripped her and wouldn't let go. So weak, bent over like that. So strong, silent when she knew what the con-cops wanted her to say.

“Do you want to ask any questions before we begin your interview?”

Violet stepped back from Agent Stiles and tilted her gaze up. His eyes didn't waver from hers, unbothered by her reaction. Was it safe to question him?

Of course, it was safe. Violet wasn't a Christian, wasn't a criminal. She was a citizen who'd accomplished a mission for the government. She could ask anything she wanted.

“I didn't know re-education was this …”

“You know the statistics, don't you?” Agent Stiles pulled a pen from the pocket of his suit jacket and walked it through his fingers, one twirl at a time. “We're very successful. Eventually, Janelle will give up on her faith. She'll be re-educated.”

“I know.” Violet turned from the window. “Where do we do the interview?”

Agent Stiles led her to the room at the end of the hall that smelled like lemon-scented cleaner and had no windows, just a door. He promised a quick return; as he disappeared from sight, Violet propped the door open with one of the two chairs. Waiting room chairs, with wooden legs and gray upholstery. Janelle likely hadn't been given a chair this comfortable. Violet claimed the other one and pulled it closer to the low, foldaway table. A white counter stretched across one wall, ending against a half fridge. Weird room for an interview.

Before Violet could check the contents of the fridge, Agent Stiles strode back into the room and moved the chair from where she'd wedged it into the doorway. A grin split his face for only a moment. He settled into the chair, across the table from Violet, and pulled a tiny voice recorder from his pocket.

“Are you ready?” he said.

Of course. She nodded.

He nodded back and pressed a button. A red light began to blink on the side of the recorder.

“Agent Sam Stiles, interviewing Violet DuBay,” he said. “Okay, Violet, just tell me what happened in your own words, everything you can remember, starting that night after the raid on the church meeting.”

Violet opened her mouth. The red light blinked. And blinked.

“Violet?”

Say something.
Say something to help them. But what if she wasn't helping?

“Did you meet any Christians, after that night?”

She nodded and forced herself to meet his eyes. His face showed no expression at all now, not even the gleam of compassion from before. Professional distance. He didn't want to influence her responses.

“Did anyone hurt you, or threaten to hurt you, if you turned them in?”

“No one's hurting you, and no one's going to.”

Violet blinked away the memory of Belinda's kind eyes. “No. Nothing like that.”

“You ended up at the home of Mrs. Penny Lewalski, hid under her deck and texted her address to us. By the time we arrived, you had left.”

Violet nodded.

“I need you to tell me the rest.” Agent Stiles leaned back in his chair. He must be stretching his legs under the table. He reached one hand to the table's edge and tapped out a brief rhythm, then went still.

“A man came, thought I was a Christian.” They knew about Khloe. Austin had said so. But if Agent Stiles didn't ask about her, Violet wouldn't volunteer. “He took me to another house. I was supposed to stay there until … I don't know. But I left. I, um, hitchhiked back, and here I am.”

“Why didn't you text the new address to us?”

“The man took my phone, so you couldn't track it.”

“What's his name?”

Her lips fused at the memory of him sitting at Belinda's table, the flinch in his shoulders, in his face, when Violet had told Lee he would be a better person after re-education. And his shaking voice:
“I can't sleep.”
He knew what was being done to Janelle, to others. He wanted to stop it. You couldn't just leave a person handcuffed to a table for three days. Were the “obstinate” ones allowed to eat, to use the bathroom? They had to be.

“Violet, did this man tell you his name?”

“Turn me in, just me. Please.”

If their Bible didn't brainwash Christians into killing people, then Marcus was right. To save people. From the Constabulary. A wave of calm slid over her. She looked up from the half-curled hands in her lap.

“He said no one was allowed to know his name.”

Agent Stiles barely leaned forward. He scrubbed his coarse black hair with one hand. “Describe him for me.”

He was trained to read people. She needed to feed him some truth. Good thing Marcus's basic features were ordinary. “Brown hair, brown eyes.”

“Physical build?”

“Big.”

“Do you mean tall?”

“Not really. I mean, not short, but not really tall, and not fat. Big like a wrestler. You know, muscles.”

“Distinguishing features?”

Left-handed. And those knuckles were noticeably scarred. Too much detail. “You mean like a birthmark? I don't remember anything like that.”

Agent Stiles nodded, sighed, and leaned back in his chair. If only he'd look around the room for a minute, but his eyes were glued to Violet's face.

“And where's this house? Who owns it?”

“It was his house, but I don't know where …”

She was lying to a con-cop. As if he couldn't see straight through her. But he didn't seem to.
Keep talking, be like Khloe, sell the story.

“Sorry,” she said. “I'm just tired.”

“You're doing fine. What can you tell me about the house?”

“He blindfolded me on the way there.”

“But you ran away, didn't you? What direction was it?”

Oh, right, of course. If her lying skills didn't improve fast, she deserved to get caught. But she might not have to lie about this.

“I know I had to go south. But I was scared, and I didn't see landmarks. I walked along M-53 until someone picked me up.”

“North of here, off 53. Okay, that's a start. And you met no one but this one man?”

“Right.”

The tapped rhythm of Agent Stiles's fingers sped up. He blinked a few times but didn't break eye contact. Violet's pulse pounded over the whirring of the refrigerator. All she could do was gaze back at him and wait for him to accuse her of withholding information.

“Can you tell me anything else?” he said.

She shook her head and told as much truth as possible. “He was careful about information. Maybe he didn't trust me for some reason.”

“I'll put some agents on a search for this house, but if you don't even know the name of the street …”