The Passenger (6 page)

Blue got a bottle of bourbon from the kitchen and poured us each a shot. As I felt the slow burn down my throat, I finally woke up. Blue took her shot and poured another, sipping it this time.

She gave me a few minutes to gather myself before she started in.

“You have a few enemies, don't you?”

“Guess so.”

“Considering I just committed a double murder for you, I think an explanation is due.”

I'd never had to explain before. Until I called him and asked for a new me, I hadn't uttered Roland Oliver's name in nine years, not even to curse him. But I didn't see any way of getting out of this, and since Blue had pulled the trigger, I figured we were now in the trenches together. She hadn't killed me just yet; in fact, she was the only reason I was still alive. I hadn't trusted a soul in ten years. Maybe it was time. I made the decision like the flip of a coin. I told Blue, I told her everything. I told her things I never told Frank, Carol, or Dr. Mike. Until the day I met Blue I could have won a gold medal in keeping secrets. I had fought so hard to forget my past, forget who I once was, that as I said my story, it felt like fiction.

When I was done, that slicing pain across my back, like an invisible scar, seemed to ease. It had been so long since I'd spoken the truth, it sounded like a lie. I had a hell of a story to tell, but Blue seemed to take it in stride.

“We all have something,” she said when I was done. “I'm starving. Do you want a grilled cheese sandwich?”

Blue devoured two sandwiches in less than fifteen minutes. She seemed wildly unfazed by my predicament and the two kills that had happened just a few hours before. When her appetite was sated, Blue asked a few practical questions.

“Do you think Mr. Oliver will send someone else after you?”

“Probably, when he figures out his friends are dead.”

“You should lay low for a while. Where are you currently hiding out?”

“In a rooming house near the capitol.”

“Let's get your things,” she said. “You can stay here.”

“The old lady won't mind?”

“The old lady's senses aren't what they used to be. If she sees two of us, she'll merely think she's seeing double.”

Blue always had lots of plans, I noticed. It seemed like a trait I ought to adopt, considering my predicament, which I had to come to accept was permanent.

It was just after five a.m. when we left the guesthouse and strolled down the driveway. A shiny blue 1980s Cadillac Fleetwood in impeccable condition was parked next to the big house.

“We'll take the old lady's car,” said Blue. “Get your things first, then pick up my car from May's.”

“Do you mind if I drive?” I said.

Blue pondered the request for a moment. “That sounds like a good idea. I wouldn't want a repeat performance.”

She tossed me the keys and we got into the well-preserved vehicle. The sedan felt like a ship leaving port as I backed out of the driveway.

In the quiet of the early morning, my mind got noisy. I replayed recent events, like watching a movie in fast-forward.

“It's funny how you were fine bashing a man's face in with your boots but couldn't muster a clean shot to the head or the heart,” Blue said.

“It was not my intention to kill anyone.”

“What was your intention?”

“To stop the car. That's all.”

I still felt adrenaline pumping and the pain in my back returned. But it all seemed to pass through Blue.

“It didn't bother you, killing them?” I said.

“Not one bit. It shouldn't have bothered you, either.”

We found ourselves cruising down the road where it all went down. We passed the crash site, which was as still as ice. You couldn't even see the car from the road. But dawn was breaking and it was just a matter of minutes before it would become a scene of flashing lights, flares, ambulances, and yellow tape.

“Wake. Up. Amelia,” Blue said as I stared into the distance, trying to draw an image of the crash into my imagination. A hardness in her delivery gave me the chills. I did wake up a bit.

“I'm awake,” I said.

“You can't just start a fight. You have to finish it. No matter what it takes.”

M
Y DEPARTURE
from Castle Ruth didn't cause much of a stir in the house. Marcus shook my hand and erupted in that noise he makes. It sounded almost like good-bye. I tried to look calm and collected as I gathered my things under Ruth's watch, but I could feel this all-over shiver, a constant vibration of nerves that I had a hard time believing no one else could see.

“You in some kind of trouble?” Ruth asked.

“No trouble,” I said. “I just found a place to stay, long-term.”

“Don't fool yourself,” she said. “It's all temporary.”

I
STUCK
my one suitcase in my Toyota and drove back to the old lady's house, parking a few doors down and dragging my suitcase up the twisty driveway. I dropped my bags in the guesthouse, then took Blue in the Cadillac back to the side street near the bar, where she picked up her black VW Jetta. We convened back at the house at noon.

“I need to check in with the old lady. Make sure she's got enough food and the cats are fed. Make yourself at home,” Blue said as we entered her home.

“Who is she to you?” I asked.

“Family, in a way. She and my aunt Greta were something to each other once, although they never told you what.”

Blue strode over to the big house. I walked through Blue's modest quarters, looking for signs of habitation. I opened a closet to find old housecoats and dresses from decades past. Probably the old woman's or Greta's. I found one drawer loaded with china figurines of ballet dancers, orchestra players, and zoo animals. Another drawer contained two antique dolls, one blond and one brunette. Under the bed was a suitcase filled with clothes. Modern ones. Blue was prepped to run at a moment's notice. I could learn a few things from her.

I checked the window and saw Blue's silhouette in the main house. I looked inside the bathroom. At least she had a few luxuries she couldn't live without. Perched on the ledge of the shower were a fragrant body wash and shampoo and conditioner that looked pricey; at least, the bottles had this foreign design that you never see in a drugstore.

I roamed into the bedroom while I still had time and opened the nightstand, the place where most people hide their secrets. Inside I found a battered old teddy bear and a gun. When Blue came back, I was lying on the couch, pretending that her entrance had woken me. Blue clocked the entire apartment and looked me in the eye.

“You saw the gun, didn't you?” she said.

“Yes,” I said. No point in denying it.

“I have a husband. Although I regard him as more of an ex-husband,” she said as if that were the common explanation for owning a firearm.

“Is he a violent man?” I asked.

Then I realized the answer was obvious. I'd never noticed it before, but Blue had a slice above her brow, and her left eye drooped slightly, almost like a reflection in a carnival mirror. Nerve damage. I'd seen it once before, at Frank's bar. I never got her name; she was passing through town with a man. She had that haunted look you see in some women. In Blue it was different, though; whatever happened to her didn't exactly seem to have stolen anything from her, except maybe a conscience. She was like a person turned upside down.

“He's no more violent than I am,” Blue said. “Then again, it wasn't always that way.”

“Who are you?” I asked. It was a reasonable question. I'd already told her everything about myself, but all I knew was that people called her Blue, and she poured drinks at May's Well, and she was putting as much ground as possible between herself and her ex.

“My first name was Debra Maze,” Blue said. “Then I got married and became Debra Reed. I was a third-grade teacher for a few years until I stopped being presentable in front of the children. Then I had to run, and my cousin who looks maybe like my sister let me have her old driver's license. I'm Carla Wright for now, and as long as I don't apply for credit or anything official, I can probably hang on to this name for a little while. But my past will catch up to me eventually, just like yours did.”

“How long did you stay with him?”

“Seven years.”

“How long have you been gone?”

“Six months,” Blue said. “When I saw your fake passport, which is as fine a forgery as I've ever seen, I figured you might be connected. It never occurred to me that your predicament could be further south than my own.”

“Sorry to get you tangled in my mess.”

“No apology necessary. Who knows, one day you might get tangled in mine. Then we'd be even.” She opened a cupboard overstuffed with towels and bedding and withdrew a blanket and pillows. “You need to sleep,” she said, “as do I. Everything looks so much simpler after a bit of shut-eye.” Then she walked into her bedroom and shut the door.

I found her bourbon and took a slug, slipped off my shoes, and put the blanket over my head, blocking the midday sun, which seemed to shine directly on the couch. I could feel that exhaustion where every part of your body seems to be sinking into itself, but I couldn't quiet my mind. On a loop I replayed the car accident in jump cuts. Each clip began with that queasy feeling in my gut, sitting there, powerless. Someone else's hands gripping the wheel, foot to the floor, knuckles white, tendons bucking under the skin.

In the dream, I know what I have to do because I didn't do it before. I've replayed this again and again in my head. Only
he's
driving, and I can see that look on his face. I remember the moment when he decided what he was going to do. That hard line set in his jaw. Knowing that the time was long past for stopping it, knowing that I should have seen it coming, knowing that I knew what he was going to do before he did. Ten years ago and it felt like tomorrow, like it could happen again and again.

I do what I should have done the first time. I swing my legs over the wheel and I kick him in the face. He loses control of the car and we jump the guardrail, landing in the frigid lake. We're slowly submerging. I know what to do. I unbuckle my seat belt and roll down the window before we go under. I look at him; he's out cold. I have enough breath to pull him out of the car, but he looks so peaceful behind the wheel. I leave him behind. I look in the backseat and see the other passenger. For a second I wonder whether I should leave him too. Then I feel the blast of cold water as it spills into the car. I jolt awake.

Blue is sitting in a chair, watching me.

“Nightmare?”

“No. A dream.”

A dream I have again and again, a simple fantasy of what I should have done. And then I would be free.

June 10, 2008

To: Ryan

From: Jo

I'm married. Got a new name. It's better than the last one. I won't tell you what it is. Plausible deniability. You won't be lying if you don't know. Should I still be looking over my shoulder or have people forgotten about me?

My husband, I'll call him Lou, if I ever need to call him anything. Lou's all right. When I was a girl I dreamed of better than all right. For a while you were my better-than-all-right. Look how that turned out. Anyway, I couldn't tell anyone else from home. You're all I've got. You and Lou.

So what's happened since I last heard from you?

Jo

June 21, 2008

To: Jo

From: Ryan

Congratulations, I guess. I just had eight bourbons at the Sundowners to celebrate. Celebrate might be the wrong word for it. Who is he? What is he? Do you love him?

Here's to a long and prosperous marriage to a man who has no idea who you really are. I'd give you advice, but according to my parents, the secret to staying together is never being in the same room.

Shit, you got married. I think I'm going to need to do more celebrating.

R

August 30, 2008

To: Ryan

From: Jo

If I didn't know you better, I'd say you were jealous.

No, Ryan, I don't love him. But getting married seemed wise, or more precisely, getting a new name seemed wise. Besides, I didn't get just a husband, I got a husband and a job. Lou owns a bar. I serve drinks. Not exactly the career path I had in mind for myself, but it's better than cleaning houses, which is what I was doing for the first year I was out on my own. We were married by Otis, the local mechanic. He's a minister with the Church of Auto Parts. I didn't even know such a thing existed. He cleaned under his fingernails for the ceremony. I was touched. When Otis said,
“ '
Til death do you part,” the first thing I thought was that I hoped longevity didn't run in Lou's family. If we last five years, I'd be surprised. But at least I got a new name out of it.

This is my life now. But it's not my only life. When I close my eyes, sometimes I enter into a different world, my alternate universe. That night never happened. Or if it did, we weren't involved. We did all of the things we said we were going to do. I even have a clear picture of the cheap one-bedroom apartment we're sharing. It's a third-floor walk-up. We sit on the fire escape on hot summer nights and drink beer and look at the stars. Come to think of it, we could be there right now.

But that isn't real. So tell me what is. What have I missed?

Jo

October 5, 2008

To: Jo

From: Ryan

I don't know if we should do this anymore. It wasn't part of the original plan. The point of all of this was for you to have a chance at a real life. Stop thinking about what might have been. Maybe you haven't given Lou a chance. Let's quit this for a while. You haven't missed a thing. Go live your life, Jo. Please.