Found and Lost (10 page)

17

Clay hadn't meant to arrive half an hour early, hadn't done so with the hope that maybe Marcus would be early too. But he'd been here forty-five minutes. By now, he'd read every sign in the place, from the painted chalkboard announcing the beer specials to the bubble-lettered poster board tacked on a wooden pillar.
“Summer Concerts: Peace, Love, and Music Every Wednesday!”
He was waiting for his second Blue Moon as well as Marcus.

A table away, two gray-haired guys in greasy T-shirts had finished their chips and salsa and waited for their meals. Clay had opted for a table rather than the bar, but until Marcus arrived, privacy wasn't necessary. Maybe he'd go perch on a stool for a minute.

The door opened, admitting a burst of evening sun around a bulky silhouette. Marcus stood a second too long before crossing the threshold. Clay lifted one hand to shoulder-level as the man's gaze scoured the room for him, and Marcus beelined to the table.

Small talk would be in order. Clay squashed the questions he wanted to volley and nodded at the chair across from him, but Marcus was already pulling it out and sitting down. His gaze took in the building's whole interior in a few seconds, probably noting the exits.

Clay spoke over Sheryl Crow from the overhead speakers, clinking silverware from the back kitchen, and the small crowd's voices bouncing off the vintage brick walls and oak floor. “Thanks for coming.”

“Sure.”

Before Marcus could say another word, the buxom brunette server hustled up to their table. She set down Clay's drink with more flourish than the establishment warranted.

“Blue Moon, no fruit.” She swiveled her gaze and her hips toward Marcus. “Nice of you to show up.”

“What?”

“This poor, lonely man's been sitting here for an hour.”

Marcus's eyes flicked between Clay and the girl as if he suspected a prank.

“Not that long,” Clay said.

“Pretty close.”

Hadn't anyone trained her on how to talk to patrons? Or maybe she was untrainable where tact was concerned. Khloe would be. Not that Khloe would ever work in a bar.

“Anyway,” she said, “what can I get you?”

“Coke, please.”

Her smile pinched at the corners. “One Coke, coming right up.”

Clay hadn't even considered that Marcus wouldn't drink a beer with him, but it sort of fit the guy's personality. Marcus probably qualified as a control freak.

“You've been here an hour?”

“She's exaggerating. I was a few minutes early. No big deal.” Clay ran his finger around the rim of the weizen glass.

Marcus looked skeptical, but after a moment, he planted his elbows on the oak-edged table. “Well. They're okay.”

“You mean Khloe.”

Marcus nodded.

Okay. She was okay. The miracle surged into Clay's throat, threatened to choke him up. He hid behind a long sip of beer and tried to focus more on the citrus-sweet flavor than on the gift Marcus had given him.

Screw small talk. Clay lowered the glass and blinked hard. “It's been a long day.”

Marcus's gaze sliced to Clay's glass, then cut away to travel the room. Another nod.

“So you've seen her? Talked to her? Is she scared, is she—?”

“She's okay. And her friend. Violet.”

Oh, Lord, You did more than I thought You could do.
“When they questioned Nat and me, they didn't ask about Violet. And they had to know she'd been there. Her ID was at the scene. I thought they must have her, didn't need to ask.”

Marcus met his eyes again with a sudden sharpness, leaned forward an inch or two. “How long have you known her?”

“Violet? Her whole life. Since she and Khloe were seven. Her dad works mall security, her mother's … Well, I don't know, Natalia's never liked her mother. I don't think she has much of a home life. She pretty much lives with us every summer.”

The server hustled over and delivered Marcus's Coke with less fanfare than Clay's beer had received. “Enjoy.”

“Thanks.”

She was already heading back to the kitchen.

Marcus tugged the red plastic cup closer and took a sip, then sat back and … did nothing, said nothing, simply sat there with a wrinkle between his eyes.

“Marcus, just tell me where they are. I'll go pick them up tonight. Now.”

The unease deepened to a scowl. “No.”

“I'll smuggle them home somehow, or—”

“No.”

“I'm not an imbecile. I can keep my own child safe.”

He shifted forward again and held Clay's gaze without blinking. “No.”

So Marcus led a bunch of people in foiling the Constabulary. That didn't give him comprehension of fatherhood, of the power it lent even the weakest of men, the unreasonable reserves to do what needed doing. How dare he think he could protect Khloe better than Clay could?

“You're going to tell me where my daughter is.”

“So you can tell them.”

Clay pushed his beer aside. “That's—”

“They're already watching you. They could decide to take you in. Officially. We shouldn't be meeting at all.”

“You're paranoid.” Or maybe not.

“It's a good haven. The best one I have. Clothes, plenty of rooms, good people. They're safe.”

“Who are they? The … hosts, or whatever you call them.” Yeah, not hosts. Sounded sci-fi, parasitical.

“Clay. No.”

Clay braced his fists on the table as if they could anchor him to his calm, give him control of this situation. “I'm going to figure out where you're keeping her, and—”

“No.” Marcus dug his knuckles into the back of his neck. “Listen to me. Nobody's being moved right now. Everything's frozen. You're watching the news, aren't you? Since the raid?”

He'd tried once and shut it off after about twenty seconds. “I didn't want to find out like that. If they had her.”

“They don't. She's okay. But you've got to let me do this. Something's going on. They raided the store, and then—that house I told you about. You told Khloe about it?”

Clay nodded.
Make your point, man.

“That's where I found them. A few hours later, she got taken too. The woman who lives there.”

“So they know who you are. They followed you.” Ice formed around Clay. “So you're the last person who should be protecting my daughter.”

“I wasn't at the Table meeting. And I've been testing things all day. It's not me.”

Vague, but Marcus's “testing” methods were irrelevant, anyway. Clay gulped his beer and stood, but Marcus stayed seated, eyed him without a hint of concession. Darn this guy.

“Clay, sometimes people try to … do things. Alone. Don't. It never goes right.”

“I want the girls back.”

“Not until I know what's going on.”

Clay closed his eyes. If he forced himself to be objective, to be logical, it didn't make sense to take Khloe and Violet home. Not when Constabulary agents could pull up the driveway at any time. But he could keep them safe somewhere else, some other way.

Like what?

When Clay's eyes opened, the big guy still sat there, both hands gripping his neck, glaring into his Coke.

“Marcus.”

He looked up, calm, distanced from desperation. He didn't understand. Clearly he didn't feel anything about this at all. Maybe his whole little network was nothing but a power trip.

No, Clay knew him better than that. Marcus was a good guy. A friend.

Still. These were Clay's children. “I'll give you twenty-four hours to deal with this. Tomorrow, we meet here again, same time.”

“Not here. The mall, that outdoor one.”

“Partridge Woods?”

“There's a fountain on the north end.”

“Fine.”

“I get detoured a lot. I'll call tomorrow. If you don't hear from me, don't go.”

The greater part of Clay almost railed at Marcus. Nothing on this man's priority list should top returning Khloe and Violet to their family. Clay crushed the myopic tirade. There were other dangers. Other families.

“Fine.” The word tasted like gravel. “But if you can make it, you'll tell me where they are, at the very least. The very least.”

“If it's safe.”

You'd better make it safe.
Okay, that was unreasonable. Clay fumbled for his wallet.

“We can't leave yet. I just got here.”

If a Constabulary agent had his eye on either one of them, a ten-minute conversation would raise alarms. He slouched down into his chair. “What now? Small talk?”

“Sorry.”

Clay leaned back and let the chair hold him up. Twenty-four hours, but not the longest of his life. Those had just passed, when the question of Khloe's safety had beaten the drum of his chest. Still, this new waiting rubbed raw all the old places.

Marcus met the gaze Clay angled down at him without looking away or saying a word. The voices of everyone else seeped around Clay instead. Their noise and Marcus's silence offered a sort of rest. Clay let his eyes close again. He could fall asleep right here.

“I'm pretty sure Janelle got arrested.” The words slid out of him, mostly numb, as if he could feel horror for only one human's plight at a time, and Khloe would always head that list.

“Yeah. And Phil. And Felice.”

“You know that for sure?”

“Now, yeah.”

“Marcus, we're talking about my girls. If anything happens to my girls …” The conclusion of that thought burned behind his eyes.

For a long moment, the bar droned on.

“I'll keep them safe,” Marcus said.

“I'll take care of her, Mr. Hansen.”
The words of the physician who, a month later, retracted his promise.
“Not rallying like we'd hoped.”
Khloe was alive today anyway. And for this blink of time, she was safe.

The girls weren't Marcus's responsibility, not really. But for a day, Clay had no other options. “Okay.”

18

Violet had always thought people past fifty believed in that “early to bed, early to rise” thing, but Belinda was apparently an exception. Violet had lain wide awake and listened to Khloe's breathing for hours before sneaking downstairs. Incriminating items, whatever they might be, probably weren't left lying around. Searching the house was a risk, now that Belinda bustled around the kitchen making cookies from scratch. At eleven-thirty at night.

You'd think she would bake tomorrow morning, when her husband came home from his fishing trip. Violet hovered in a shadow at the base of the spiral staircase and glared at the light pouring into the foyer from the kitchen. But wow, the cookies smelled amazing. Belinda hummed off-key and let pans clatter. In a mammoth mansion, you could probably scream downstairs and not be heard upstairs.

Great thought.

Evidence wouldn't come to her, so she must go to the evidence. She headed down the hall to the right.

Belinda's tour had designated this room as her husband's study, but it didn't at all resemble Clay's. The rustic wall panels were a masculine touch—or an attempt to hide a door in the wall. The room held no desk, just a low bookshelf, a stuffed chair and coffee table, and a TV. A sleek gray fish hung on the far wall like a deer's head, above eye level and attached to a wooden stand. Its mouth gaped, and its eye watched Violet cross to the bookshelf, which contained about half movies and half books. The book titles were an interesting mix: ragged hardcovers by Mark Twain, recent paperback thrillers, and a slim collection of poetry by Robert Frost.

Violet flopped into the chair and made eye contact with the fish. “Am I wasting my time in here?”

Good grief, it looked like it blinked at her. She looked away to the coffee table. A slim, brass lamp stood on a woven doily. A cork-bottomed coaster depicted a guy and his dog in a fishing boat. And a leather-bound book just sat there, unhidden, like a dare.

Belinda's husband really was exploring Christianity.

Violet picked the book up. Gold letters had mostly rubbed off the spine:
Holy Bible.
Holy? The new ones didn't say that. She opened the cover. A woman's handwriting filled in the blanks with purple ink.
“This Bible is presented to: James A. Cole. Presented by:”
Here, the woman had written a whole message, squeezing two rows of words between each line. She had to write smaller toward the end.

“To my second love and husband, who has finally met and embraced my First Love and Savior! I'm yours, and now both of us are His. Love forever and ever, Karlyn.”

Violet's finger traced the names and trembled. James Cole. Karlyn Cole. Names from a news story, months ago, sometime last fall. Arrested Christians. They'd fought back when the con-cops came for them—violently, according to at least one news report. Violet wouldn't even know their names if her social science teacher hadn't given extra credit to anyone who wrote an essay on the Constabulary's latest success.

Where would Belinda's husband have gotten James Cole's Bible? Did they know him? Or did someone else know him, someone involved in the Bible black market?

She pushed away thoughts of the book's previous owner and flipped to the first page of text. Genesis.
“In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.”
That was the same. Well, she didn't have time to read the whole thing. She flipped forward to find one of Jesus' books. What did He say in this version? Did He promote violence and intolerance? Here. Matthew. This book would tell her.

Knock-knock-knock.

The sound came from the living room. Violet jumped up and ducked behind the study door. Her mouth turned to sawdust. She couldn't get back upstairs without crossing in front of the living room. Whoever that was, they'd see her.

Knock-knock-knock-knock.

A lock clicked, and the sliding glass door slid open.

If she was going to get caught, better not to be in this room. Maybe she could claim she was pacing the hallways, stricken by insomnia. She padded back toward the staircase but stayed hidden by the half wall. Too bad it didn't extend to block off the living room.

“Come in, come in,” Belinda said. “No wonder I felt like baking—oh! What's wrong, what's—?”

“I'm sorry. I couldn't call.”

Violet cringed against the wall. Marcus.

“You know better than to apologize.” Belinda's voice neared her. “Just fill me in as much as you can. Is she all right?”

“She needs somewhere to lay down.”

“Right over here to the couch.”

A new voice joined them, husky and low. “Thank you.”

Violet reached the edge of the wall and peered around it. Belinda bent to switch on a lamp, and its warm glow filled the room. The male voice did indeed belong to Marcus, clad in jeans and a black T-shirt. A baseball cap's curved brim shielded the top half of his face. He carried a petite black woman to the couch and eased her down. Long braided extensions fanned onto the throw pillow. She kept her knees bent when Marcus withdrew his arms. Her clover-green maternity top strained over her belly.

Belinda sat beside her. “What's your name, sugar?”

“Please, I'm having contractions. He said you might know what to do to stop them.”

“To stop them?” Belinda's face crinkled as she stared at Marcus.

Marcus ground his knuckles against his neck. “I thought—if she lays down and … I don't know, but—”

The woman pushed up onto her elbows. “Sir, you've got to save my husband, whatever you have to do. Please.”

“I will,” Marcus said.

Belinda's attention bounced back and forth between them and rested on Marcus. “Can you tell me?”

“Her husband's driving home tomorrow afternoon. Business trip in Indiana. I've got to—”

“Get him and bring him here,” the woman said. “Before they get hold of him.”

“How?” Belinda clasped her hands together as if she'd suggest they all drop to their knees in prayer right there on her carpet. But no, she wasn't a Christian.

Marcus gripped the back of his neck and started to pace.

“All right, then. Tell me your name, sugar.”

“Wren Thomas, Wren like the bird. My husband's Franklin.”

“Wren, I'm Belinda, and don't you worry about a thing. Just lie back here and relax a minute while I talk to Marcus.”

“He has to save my husband.”

“That counts as worrying.” Belinda patted her shoulder and followed Marcus from the room.

They headed to the kitchen. Violet ducked past the living room, unnoticed by Wren, and padded after them.
Go back to bed.
But she might learn details, how Marcus planned to “save” this guy. When she peeked around the kitchen corner, Marcus was pacing in front of the fridge. Belinda propped a hip against the counter and watched him.

“I don't see how it can be done, Marcus. I mean, he'll probably get over the state line without trouble, but if she doesn't know what time or where …”

“I have to try.”

“What'll you do, park across from his house and wait for him? You won't be helping anyone if you get taken yourself.”

“The baby. You can help her? She said he's not supposed to come now.”

“Could be false labor, could be stress. It might stop if she calms down, but I'm not a nurse.”

Marcus shook his head. “No.”

“I'm just telling you, if it's really labor—”

“No.” His left foot dragged a step over the rug, and he reached a hand to the counter.

“Son?”

“I need coffee. Please. Black.”

Belinda charged into his space and stared into his bloodshot eyes. “Oh my heavens, you haven't slept a wink.”

“This isn't the time to sleep.”

“And last night wasn't, either. Marcus, what were you thinking, getting behind the wheel with a pregnant woman depending on you?”

“That woman
is
depending on me. To save her husband. I need coffee. Now.”

“You are not leaving this house. Not until you've slept.”

Marcus glared at her like … like he could kill her? A shudder ran through Violet. He trudged across the kitchen to the coffeemaker, grabbed the carafe, and started to fill it with water.

“Marcus Brenner, you're not getting any coffee.” Belinda stomped over and shut off the faucet.

Brenner.
Thanks for the info, Belinda. Keep talking.
Maybe he'd spontaneously confess.

“When Chuck gets back, he'll help you sort all this out.”

“I won't be here when Chuck—”

A quiet groan from the living room broke into his words.

Marcus's gaze snapped to the doorway too fast for Violet to duck. She froze, as if he might not see her head poked halfway into the room. He jolted back a step, and then recognition relaxed his shoulders.

“Violet,” he said.

“What are you doing up, sugar?”

“Couldn't sleep.” Couldn't move while Marcus studied her.

“We've got another guest.” Belinda steered Violet toward the stairs, seeming not to notice Marcus's eyes boring into their backs. Or just Violet's back. “Probably best if you go back to bed.”

Wren moaned again, still quietly but a longer sound this time. Belinda rushed into the living room. Well, no one had
ordered
Violet to bed. She followed.

Wren sat upright now, doubled over as far as the swell of her belly would allow. Both her hands clung to the cushion. She lifted her head.

“It's coming again.”

Belinda knelt beside her and rested a hand on her belly. “You're how far along?”

“Thirty-five weeks.”

Belinda looked over Violet's shoulder, sending some message. Marcus blocked most of the doorway.

“This little one could be ready,” she said, not to Wren but to Marcus. He stared at them both with something between concern and panic.

Wren rocked forward and back. “Not yet. Not yet.”

“Anything we need to know? Risk factors?”

“No, but he can't come now.”

“I think it's been four decades since a child was born in this house. About time for another one.”

They were all crazy. Nothing was worth giving birth without drugs, without a doctor. Belinda's hand moved on Wren's belly as Wren began to breathe harder.

Come on, somebody take her to a hospital.

When the pain ended, Wren sat there … crying. Soundless tears dropped onto her belly.

“It's labor, Marcus,” Belinda said. “We're going to need Lee.”

“Is Lee a doctor?” Wren's alto voice lilted upward with hope.

“She's a nurse, our go-to medical gal. I've got four children of my own, I know how it's done, but any sight of blood and I get dizzy as can be. Marcus, we've got to have Lee if we're going to deliver a baby.”

From the kitchen, the coffeemaker gurgled. Marcus turned and left the room.

Belinda sighed after him, then looked to Violet. “Glad you're up, after all. He left his keys on the counter. I need you to swipe them for me as soon as he's not looking.”

Prevent him from preventing a Constabulary arrest? Sure, she could do that. When Marcus reentered the room, cradling a steaming mug, Violet slid behind his line of sight.

Belinda's voice gentled even more than usual. “Son, I know you're worried right now, about all of us, and there's good reason for it. But please, you have to call Lee.”

Violet slipped from the room.

The scent of coffee filled the kitchen. The carafe held about ten cups, kept warm on the coffeemaker's hot plate. Surely he didn't plan on drinking all of it. As Belinda had said, a key ring sprawled on the counter, only a few keys and a knife. Violet scooped them up and held them against her thigh to muffle the jingle.

Now to stash them. She stood in the center of the kitchen and pivoted a slow circle. Hmm.

She tugged open the lower oven drawer. Like Mom, Belinda stored her cookie sheets down here. Violet leaned down.

“What're you doing?”

She jolted upright. The keys hit her foot and bounced to the floor with a condemning
clink
.

Marcus's gaze bored into hers, traveled down to the keys, then back to her. His chest rose with a deep breath. Something crinkled between his eyes, some certainty or decision.

“What are you doing?” He took a step into the room and seemed to fill it.

“I— I— I—”

“Who sent you?”

He knew. He could probably see her heart hammering through her shirt.
Come on, girl, think.
She couldn't.

Another step, closer to her, his shoe almost soundless on the tile. Scents of him crowded too close—soap, wood, and clean sweat. She backed into the corner of the counter. Dead end. Literally. Because he knew it all, everything she'd done, and he was a Christian. The only reasonable thing for him to do was to kill her.